THR Volume 1 : The Hero's Return
by RosieMac
Summary: After 5 years away, John Connor has returned from the post-Born To Run future with Cameron & a plan to defeat SkyNet; Sarah Connor has to deal with her more mature son & where she fits in his life, whilst contemplating what the future holds for all of them.
1. Dealing With Danny Dyson

**THR VOLUME 1: THE HERO'S RETURN**

_**Part One **_**–**_**Dealing With Danny Dyson**_

_Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters, I am merely borrowing them_.

* * *

My son, my only child, left me, to go after this thing, this monster who looks like a girl, who took his heart. I promised him I'd prevent Judgment Day, but when he reached that future, I'd failed. The girl-monster said it will always be; we cannot stop it, only delay it. So he came back to me, once he'd found his lost love. For me, it was only five minutes that he was gone. For him, it was five years. My little boy John went away to war, but he never came back. John Connor, warrior, returned in his stead.

I asked the girl-monster if that was the purpose of her giving up her chip to the carcase of the machine that pursued us through time. She shook her head. She said she had no intention of drawing John to the future, she just thought she could aid him better there. She was as surprised as me that he followed her to hell. She was angry with him, but mindful of how she had alienated him before when he risked himself for her, she merely thanked him, and told him that she loved him.

Oh, how I longed for a normal life for my son; to meet a pretty girl, fall in love, raise a family. See out their days in some place that could be called paradise, if only because it hadn't been reduced to rubble and ash by war. To be a doting grandmother, who spoiled their children while no-one was looking; to teach them how to live life to the full; to love them without fear of what destiny lay in wait for them.

Instead I got her, the girl-monster: Cameron. And yet, with her he acts somewhat human. With everyone else, he is detached. He turns on the charm when necessary, to cajole and encourage such troops as we have gathered, but they do not see what I see: it is just an act. He learned this in the future; his boyish charm was worn away there, replaced by something he could put on as easily as a coat. All the while his companion was the only one other than I to notice. We became confidantes, sharing our concerns for him.

* * *

And now here we are, ready to play out the final scene. John says he knows that Danny Dyson sold out humanity; he stayed in the future long enough to find out the what, where, when and how of SkyNet's origin. Before, Cameron only had a vague idea, when she was first sent back to aid us. John wanted to make sure this time. Cameron is prepared to kill Dyson. I would call it murder, but that means nothing to a Terminator. However, she does not think like a Terminator anymore. She does not wish to kill Danny Dyson because he is a threat to my son and the rest of humanity, but because by doing so she will prevent John from having to do it himself. Perhaps she interprets it as a threat to John's mental well-being?

John suggests that Cameron escort me out of the building, so that I do not have to witness the death of another Dyson male. She agrees, but once we are out of the room, we hear two shots fired in quick succession. We turn as one, but she is quicker than I and reaches the doorway first. Looking over her shoulder, I see the man who was my boy standing over the unmoving body of Daniel Dyson, 21; sometime resident of Los Angeles, California; killed in a gang-related shooting, as the press will likely report it.

A grim-faced John Connor looks up and seeing me, smiles warmly.

"I think we're done here," he says.

The rapid change in his visage is something I've seen before on Cameron; now she too changes her expression, but from one of shock to her usual blank stare. She manages to hide her feelings from John, and I can only wonder why.

"Is that it? Is the future safe?" I ask.

My son shrugs as he makes his weapon safe. Cameron takes his hand and leads him away from the scene of his crime.

"Was it worth it?" I ask.

Unseen by my son, Cameron glances back and gives me a look that says: _"__Who knows?"_

Inwardly I curse and scream; I too wear a mask.


	2. Dealing With The Aftermath

_**Part Two – Dealing With The Aftermath**_

John strides out towards our waiting vehicle, aiming for the driver's door. He releases Cameron's hand in order to take the keys from her, his intention to drive signaled merely by holding his hand out. Even in something as simple as this, he is giving an order with the minimum of effort.

Cameron immediately takes up station in the 'shotgun' seat. I am relegated to the back seat. I idly wonder if this is how fading sports stars feel when they find themselves warming the bench, instead of taking to the field of play; passed over in the minds of coaches and fans for someone younger, fitter, sharper. More photogenic.

Ah, what the hell do I know of sports? All I know is hunting and evasion. Cameron moves her head with the most economical of motions, yet scans for threats the whole time, aided by a secondary rear-view mirror of the kind usually found in Police cruisers. In it I catch her eye momentarily, and think I see a glimpse of sympathy; at least I hope I do. I realize I am starting to want to see something in her expressions, a trait which I accused my son of when she first came to us.

Our journey back to our current home, a town north-east of Los Angeles chosen by Cameron, remains silent. We stop to refuel our gas tank and ourselves, but looking at the food left on our plates, only one of us has an appetite.

"We oughtta get a doggy-bag for your stuff," says John, wiping his mouth. He values the food because of its scarcity in the future he found himself in. I value it too, but I find I am unable to eat much. Is it because my son executed someone earlier today, or because something is growing within me, consuming me from the inside?

As she gets up to settle the check, Cameron glides a finger across my hand. It is subtle, not really noticeable; but she does it several times a day now. She is analyzing me, comparing results from day to day. There is a flicker of something on her face, a twitch around the mouth maybe, then it is gone. We will discuss this later, away from my son's eyes and ears.

Before we arrive back at our latest home, we need to resupply it. We stop at a large shopping mall, better to blend in among the thousands milling about. Cameron and I go into a grocery store, while John… well, John goes somewhere else.

I stop at the dairy section and weigh up the benefits of full-fat versus semi-skimmed. I settle on the former and then look around for Cameron. She is up ahead, by the cereals. She appears to be talking to an infant in a shopping cart. Curious, I approach and see she is smiling. Abruptly, she straightens up and tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear, something she never used to do. Well, there's a lot that's different in the Connor household these days. A woman has appeared, placing a box of cornflakes in the cart. She smiles uncertainly at Cameron.

"Do you have one of your own?" the mother asks.

Cameron smiles awkwardly, then shakes her head. "No, not yet."

"Someday soon," the mother says, though I'm not sure if it's a question or a statement.

"Maybe," replies Cameron.

I wonder how she does it, this all-too human act. Observation, and lots of it probably. The mother smiles and mouths "_'Bye_" then wheels the shopping cart round, and I have my second shock of the day. In the seat of the cart is a miniature Cameron, dribbling on to her top.

"What the hell!" I say in a shout-whisper. I grab the cyborg's arm and glare at her. "Who is that? Why does she look like you?"

"Later," she says, sounding almost annoyed, then releases herself from my hold.

I follow her round the store, while at the same time looking for the mysterious child. I wonder if Cameron has plans for it; was that why she gave the responses she did to the mother? Or does the child have some part to play in her creation in the future? I will get no answers now, of that I am certain. I had always wondered about that curious mole above her left eye; curious because a flaw on a perfect machine was unusual. I thought it was SkyNet's way to make her appear more human, less flawless. When her face grew back, it did so without the mark, thus removing the obvious connection between Cameron and the infant that I made, but which the child's mother couldn't quite reach. As I watch her assessing every item she selects with the same care she lavishes on her gun maintenance and make-up, I marvel at this creation of evil. I know my son loves her; I just don't like it.

* * *

_When he returned from the future, I had barely come to grips with the fact that he had gone. James Ellison was shaking me, urging me to leave the building, when there was another seeming explosion in the room next door. The effect of that TDE activating was to vaporize the one they had used to go forwards in time. My son, aged by five years in as many minutes, ran over to the lifeless, broken doll sitting in a chair. Completely naked, he ignored me, rushing to place a chip in the head of his erstwhile protector._

"_John!" I cried._

"_Oh, yeah, hi Mom!" he said, over his shoulder._

_I knew he was counting the seconds down until she came back to life, which she did with a whir then a flash of blue in her eyes. She stood up and with a jerking motion, tilted her head. She briefly seemed confused, but then looked at John, who was clutching at the sleeves of her bullet-riddled jacket._

"_John? You came after me?" she asked._

"_Yes!" he replied._

_After a short pause, she smiled and said "Thank you."_

_I should hate that smile, but it's about the only genuine one I see these days, though her next words made my stomach turn, taking my whole world with it._

"_I love you," she said simply._

_Three little words, that have more meaning than anything else on this soon-to-be-damned earth. And he repeated them back! Then, despite half her face being missing, or maybe because of it, he took her in his arms and kissed her. I stood there, speechless, knowing now my new place in the grand scheme that is John Connor's life._

* * *

As we go through the checkout, Cameron already has the exact amount of dollars and cents ready to hand over to the bored young girl operating the till. They compete with each other for the best fake-sincere smile. The girl wins. Cameron hates losing, so I imagine she will copy that one for later use.

With a cart-load of groceries to push, I wonder where the man of the hour has gotten to. Not that we need his strength, when his girlfriend can bench-press a Jeep, but hey, he likes to treat her like a 'lady'. As if on cue, he sidles up to her, snaking an arm around her. I cannot fail to see his hand slide into her back jeans pocket.

"Hey, babe! Need a hand?" he asks.

I'm glad I didn't eat much earlier, but I wish I had gone for something plainer as my Spaghetti alla Carbonara threatens to make a come-back.

* * *

As we approach our unassuming pied-à-terre Cameron tenses up, but only slightly.

"John, drive around the block; Sarah, duck down," she orders, before sliding low in her seat.

I am on the floor before she can finish her instruction. This much I can still do instinctively.

We cruise round to the rear of the house opposite ours, and wait for it to get completely dark. Cameron has informed us that the vehicle sitting just a way up from our house, a silver-colored 2008 Ford Crown Victoria, is on a database of FBI vehicles. John has a plan: he and I will go to the house, while Cameron grabs the occupant of the Crown Vic.

Hmm, now why didn't I think of that?

* * *

Ten minutes later in our basement, I am sitting face to face with Agent Auldridge. Again.

"Brown suits you so much better than orange," he says.

I smile, sort of. "You are a funny boy," I say. But it's time to get down to business. "How did you find us, Mister Auldridge?"

"Trouble follows you around, Sarah. I followed it," is all he says.

Cameron clamps a hand on his shoulder, making him wince. He decides to continue. Clever boy.

"You engineer a jailbreak of massive proportions. Hours later, two bombs go off at the headquarters of the Zeira Corporation. This has happened before with you, Sarah. There's a pattern emerging: small software and hardware companies have been blown up all around the South-West."

"Could be a coincidence. Could be angry customers," I suggest.

"Somehow I think not. You know I believe your story of evil robots from the future?" Pointing to Cameron, he continues, "She's one of them, isn't she? I saw the damage she took in L.A. County, but now look at her. And John, your dead son, he looks pretty healthy, though not sixteen anymore. He seems to have aged a lot more than you since the bank destruction in 1999."

"He's grown up," I retort, not untruthfully. "Me, I have a good beauty régime."

"Ah! Funny," he says, but he's not laughing. "My bosses think you died, again, in the basement of ZeiraCorp. But, they let me tie up the loose ends from the case, to keep me amused. I kept finding the same car on traffic camera and surveillance footage at or near the scene of all the bombings. Including ZeiraCorp and the L.A. County Jail. You really ought to be more careful; you're getting sloppy, Sarah."

"Yeah, well I'll bear that in mind, should I plan on taking up bombing in the future," I say.

Just then, the savior of mankind decides to join our little chat.

"So," he says, elongating the word. "Let me get this straight. Your bosses think we're dead; you are working on your own; no-one knows you're here. Is that right?"

He asks it in such a gentle, conversational tone that I almost expect Auldridge to say _"Yes, thank you"_ as if responding to an offer of a cup of coffee. It all seems so normal, but at the same time the air is thick with tension.

John chambers a round in his handgun, though he doesn't wave it menacingly. But I can see he is coiled, ready to strike. Agent Auldridge knows he is not long for this world. He looks from John, to Cameron, to me, seeking a friendly face, someone to plead with. He finds nothing in my son's eyes, and cannot read Cameron's blank features; so he ends up back with me, the one he thought a cold-blooded killer.

I want to discuss this with John, but not here. I suggest we go upstairs, away from Auldridge. My son agrees, waving me along.

"Uh-huh! After you," I insist, remembering this morning.

John smiles wryly, and after holstering his gun leads the way upstairs, followed a pace behind by Cameron, then me. As I enter the kitchen, Cameron locks the basement door, then goes to make some coffee. I absentmindedly wonder if telepathy is one of her special abilities, then dismiss the thought.

"What were you going to do back there?" I ask John.

"You all know what must be done," he states.

"What happened to you? How can you do this, just kill people like that?" I'm not just talking about Auldridge now.

"The war is real, Mom. It's started. It's happening now. This guy will likely be dead in a year or two. If he takes us in, we're all as good as dead. If I die, the future dies. You told me that all my life; now I've seen the future, I know I have to be there, I know what I have to do: whatever it takes to win." John pauses for emphasis. "Whatever it takes."

Well, I knew he had grown a steel backbone in his time away, but I didn't think he'd swap his heart for a coltan one too. I look to Cameron for support, but like Agent Auldridge I find none there. She knows John has made up his mind, and can find no flaw in his logic. Well, why would she? She eliminates problems, and Auldridge is a big problem. The flash of emotion I thought I saw earlier today, when my son dealt with Danny Dyson, is not present now.

I decide to change tack. "Why did you come back?" I ask my only child.

He is momentarily stumped, but then assumes his relaxed, smiling face. "I told you. For you."

"Yeah, right!" I sneer childishly.

"Both of you," he corrects himself, taking a steaming mug from his cyborg, whom he rewards with an even bigger smile, which she reciprocates. Suddenly I find I hate that smile again. "And to win the war," he continues. "It was not winnable there. So I came back, to win. For that, I need you. Both of you."

I note that he repeats that phrase; is he including us in his plan, or his crime?

"And you think murdering a federal agent is winning the war?" I spit out, angry now.

"Do you want to spend the next year talking to him, hoping to persuade him to our point of view? Huh? Because I don't have time for that."

"She does, if you can spare her at night that is!" I say sarcastically, nodding at Cameron. The Terminator has the decency to look embarrassed, which only goes to put me off my stride, as I wonder once more what is going on inside her head.

The room is silent for what seems like hours, but can only be minutes.

"We need to relocate. If we do so within the next twenty-four hours, we can leave Agent Auldridge behind. If we kill him, it may provide the evidence his superiors need to confirm his theories that we are still at large. If we disable him with an undetectable tranquilizer, we will have a clear head start and leave no trail to follow," a precise but gentle voice says.

John and I both stare at the enigma that is Cameron Phillips.

"And do we have any undetectable tranquilizer?" John asks.

"We do," Cameron replies.

John scratches the back of his neck and sighs. "Okay. If you think that works, I'm good."

Cameron smiles, then hugs him. As she does, I catch her eye, and nod my appreciation.

* * *

Why is my life so complicated? Why couldn't I have just finished college and gone on to be a teacher or a wage slave or whatever it was I had in mind back then? Somewhere out there, there's a universe where I died in 2005. Somewhere there might be one where I never was the mother of all destiny. All I know is, neither is my universe. This is my life, my burden, my destiny. I am no great poet or artist, I'm just a mother. I'm dying of cancer and my son is in love with the world's most perfect killing machine.

Just another ordinary day in the life of Sarah Connor.


	3. Dealing With The Future

_**Part Three – Dealing With The Future**_

We follow Cameron's suggestion and drug Agent Auldridge. In the wee small hours she takes him home in his car, depositing him in his own bed, assuring us that she has left no trace. My son follows her and brings her back, but not before they follow Auldridge's advice and ditch the black Chevy for a pewter-colored Jeep; all the while I have been packing up our belongings. It is a long night; not the first we have endured, probably not the last.

We make our escape after the morning rush hour. Now, there's a misnomer! You neither rush, nor is it just one hour. More like two to three. Well, I do and don't envy those commuters, locked in their little metal boxes, trundling off to earn a living. I never had the chance to grow bored or disenchanted with my job, grouch about health plans or retirement funds, set up a college fund for my boy.

I watch him sitting askew in the front passenger seat. His left arm is draped over the backrest of Cameron's chair. He seemingly idly twiddles with her hair as she drives sedately on the highway, aiming south. Occasionally she glances at John to give him a smile, but says nothing. Young people in love, with a parent hovering nearby, soon learn a language of their own. Subtle glances, half-spoken whispers, light touches; all part of a ritual played out over the ages, but each generation discovers it anew, claiming it as their own; much like sex. Oh, they may deny it, but the laundry basket does not lie.

I return to gazing out the window, telling myself I should enjoy the view; it is probably the last time I will ever see it. Possibly nobody will see it this way in a few short years, if that. My son is confident that his actions will have seen off SkyNet's threat. His protector is not so sure. Experience leads me to go with her on this one, but I still have hope that John is right.

* * *

_We pull up outside a small two-story house in a quiet residential street. The outside timber slats are painted egg-shell blue, the window frames and shutters a bright white. On the front porch are some old boots, discarded toys and a small pile of logs. Signs of a normal home. We ignore the front door, instead take the side gate and follow the smell of a barbecue. As we round the corner I spot a brown-haired man pushing a young girl in a swing. She looks to be around seven; I guess him to be nearly thirty, but I never was good at that sort of thing._

"_One more push, then I gotta check the meat, okay?" he says._

"_Please Daddy! Just another minute?" she implores, looking back over her shoulder at him. But he has stopped pushing and is walking towards us, smiling._

"_Hey, Mom, Dad! You guys are early. Cameron's just checking on the baked potatoes; soon as she's done we'll get you something to drink. Or you can help yourselves; you know where everything is, right?"_

_Just then the back door opens and Cameron steps out on to the porch, carrying a tray with glasses and a pitcher of what looks like homemade lemonade. She frowns at me, then tilts her head. I hate it when she does that._

"_Wake up Sarah, you're having a dream," she says in her monotonous voice._

"_Dream? It's a freaking nightmare!" I reply._

Then I wake up for real, to see my son and his cyborg lover staring at me with concern, or an approximation thereof, written upon their faces. I don't know which is worse: the nightmare or the reality.

I draw in a deep breath. "Why'd we stop?" I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"Gas. Food. Bathroom. What we always stop for," says the 'general'.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" I say, curtailing any more conversation by exiting the SUV.

* * *

Following yesterday's events I stick to the safety of grilled chicken and a baked potato as we replenish ourselves. The dream I had, with its vivid smell of potatoes baking and meat cooking on charcoal, makes me surprisingly hungry. The decision to opt for a baked potato I put down to my subconscious telling me that it is a fine nutritious vegetable, with little chance of upsetting my digestive system. That my subconscious seems to speak with Cameron's voice, I try my best to ignore. I have dreamed before now of her talking about the merits of certain foods, and even discoursing on art. Those too were nightmares, induced by drugs as I was held captive by the first man I killed, but there was some truth to them. She did indeed take over from me in the care of my son, however I didn't lose him, I gave him to her; she just chose another way, giving him back, but not before cementing in his mind the idea that she was 'The One'. Which of course meant that I didn't really get him back at all. What I did get was my son fully-trained and versed in the art of war against the machines, in ways that I could never imagine. Also he saw for himself the future that we had only known second-hand; but it was a future without his presence, one without hope.

At the end of our meal, Cameron scans me again. Soon I will have it out with her about that. Outside of the diner, I finally discover what John does when he disappears without Cameron's protection. He is in the SUV, conversing with the other 'good' cyborg, John Henry. Catherine Weaver's gift to mankind. Well, so far at least.

As I climb in back of the Jeep, John Henry exits stage right, bidding me a _"Good evening."_ My John looks pleased with himself.

"We'll stop at a motel for the night. We oughtta get some rest. Looks like we're gonna need it."

"Oh?" I leave it hanging in the air, but John doesn't bite, merely turning the engine over and winking at Cameron.

_Right, it's like that,_ I think._ No need for the kid gloves. _Well, it's never easy being a Connor.

* * *

Some two hours and one hundred-twelve miles down the highway, we have found a cheap motel that meets Cameron's exacting standards. As we head to our two separate but adjoining rooms, we agree to meet and confer in John's room after freshening up and, I assume, Cameron has reconnoitered the locale.

* * *

John is sitting in the sole chair in the room, Cameron standing by his side, a proprietorial hand resting on his shoulder. I note he doesn't offer his old mom the seat; I'll have to remind him of his manners. Immediately he gets down to business, though not the subject I was expecting.

"We need to talk about the future, Mom," he states.

"Which future? The one she came from?" I say, pointing at Cameron, "Or the one you jumped to, to get her back?"

"Actually, _our_ future. The one that starts tomorrow," he says, then pauses for dramatic effect. I'm about to remind him that he's addressing his mother, not his troops, when he continues, obviating the need for my correction.

"Me and Cameron are gonna get married," he says calmly, as if informing me that they're popping out to Burger King.

I say nothing, waiting for him to speak again. He knows this ploy, knows that the first to talk loses the battle of wills. My will is indomitable however. Since Pescadero at least. Since he came back from the future, so is my son's. Except in one area.

"We aren't asking for your approval; that would be too much. But a sign that you are prepared to accept us, would help John a lot."

Thus spake Cameron Phillips: the future Mrs Connor? Once it would have been over my dead body. Now that my death approaches rapidly, I may not have any say in the matter. But it seems nice that my boy still wants his mother's yay or nay on the girl he marries.

Did I say girl? I must be deteriorating. She's not a girl. She's not even a _she_. She's Death in a candy-covered package!

I chuckle at my own joke, but it turns into a cough, then more. My son rushes to my aid, concerned, but I wave him off and head to the bathroom. Unseen, unheard, Cameron is there with me. I cannot force her away. She passes me a glass of water, which I gulp down.

"What is it? What did you find?" I demand.

"I don't know," is all she supplies.

"You don't know?" I rebuke her in the strongest terms I can muster, but I guess she heard all that and more in the future she was first sent back from. Apparently there were sailors that survived Judgment Day to pass on their knowledge and experience. And their curses. Cameron just stands there, looking vaguely guilty.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. My scans show that your vital signs are elevated, even factoring in the events of yesterday. The mean average over the last twenty-eight days has been exceeded by nine-point-two percent in the last forty-eight hours. Your usual excess reading in stressful situations is only four-point-seven percent. I cannot determine exactly what is wrong with you, but you are deficient in iron and you continue to lose body mass. You may have a virus. I suggest you consult a physician urgently."

"How can I do that? We're on the run, or have you forgotten?" I say harshly.

She makes a face as if I am a foolish child, a face I saw her use often on John when she thought nobody was looking, in the time he was with the Dawson girl. But then it is gone, and she smiles slightly, with warmth there somehow.

"No, of course not. We are going to Mexico City. It is extremely large and we can blend in there easier than in a small town. They have the facilities to treat you. We have papers that will be adequate for our needs. So don't worry, everything will be fine."

I hear her soothing voice and see why my son falls under her spell. I want to protest, but what she says makes sense. It's what I'd do. But I still need answers.

* * *

Back in the room, John is once again holding court on his throne, his queen at his side; I however am playing a different game: the noble art of verbal abuse. Round two commences, I'm in straight out of my corner with a verbal left hook.

"So, who was that child? The one in the grocery store?" I demand. The cyborg once again looks annoyed. "Don't give me that look, missy; give me the truth, straight up!"

"Her name is Allison Young. She is the human template for my hyper-alloy chassis and organic covering."

"That's a complicated way of saying you were a copy of her, right?"

"Right."

"But there's more to it than that, right?"

"Right."

"Illuminate me," I say, with the best smile I can muster, though it isn't much of one. My skin still feels dry and taut from the combined effect of the desert sun and air, mixed with the air-conditioning in our SUV. I'm thinking I'll need extra moisturizer before I turn in tonight, all the while Cameron clicks and whirs through her possible versions of the truth.

"I interrogated her so as to mimic her fully. I was intended to replace her in the resistance, thus gaining access to John Connor; my mission was to terminate him. After I had obtained all that I felt I would get from Allison, I killed her."

"Oh! How surprising." The sarcasm is dripping from my voice.

"Actually, I was… irritated, by her resistance, her lying. Perhaps some of what I was trying to copy from her became a part of me, or it could just be that I had a glitch; either way, I did not try to kill that John Connor. I over-rode my termination commands, as I did with this John after he re-activated me on his sixteenth birthday."

"So, you weren't re-programmed then?" I ask, confused.

"No, but my memories were scrubbed in the hope of preventing my reversion. Unfortunately, I did suffer one." She looks away, something like shame and sadness flickering across her face. My son takes her hand in his and she is reassured; she looks me square in the eye once more. "My attempts to prevent a recurrence led me to the course of actions that ended with John following me to the future."

I shake my head as I try to come to terms with these extra pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. A part of the picture emerges in sharp focus.

"So, how do you remember this Allison girl, if your memories were scrubbed?"

"After my reversion, I continued to have software errors. One day I had a complete failure. The interrogation files were all that I could access, though I did not know I was a cybernetic organism; I believed myself to be Allison Young."

"And where was I at this time?"

"I believe that you were with Kacy at the hospital."

"And John?"

She looks to him: checking he is okay, or checking he is okay with her revealing all this? He nods and smiles slightly, but otherwise looks unmoved. He has adopted a lot of her traits since he went away. Again, I don't know if that is for the best. She carries on with her story.

"He spent the day trying to locate me. The first time he found me, I did not know him. Later, I had fully recovered my files and once again over-rode my termination protocols."

"So why is this the first I've heard of this?"

"John said that you'd _"go_ _ape-shit" _if you found out. I concurred. I did not wish to be given another thermite bath."

Despite myself, I can only smile at this part of the story she tells. Although there is not much intonation in her voice, there is enough to suggest that once at least, I could put the fear of god into these two kids.

Kids? I've gotta stop calling them that. She was never a kid, but was John either? That would be my fault. Maybe that child-like simplicity she sometimes displays isn't an act; maybe it's just her as she really is, inquisitive and keen to learn. But I need to get back to the Q and A session.

"So," I probe, "this Allison girl: why were you looking for her back in Palmdale?"

"It was a coincidence that we met yesterday. My intention was merely to be near her, in case we need to ensure her survival, should Judgment Day occur."

"Really?" I doubt that is the complete truth. "So why were you 'cootchie-cooing' to her in the grocery store?"

Cameron looks puzzled until John supplies the answer. "She means baby-talk."

"Oh. Thank you for–"

"–crying out loud! Can't you just say _'thanks?'_" I interrupt another of her annoying habits. It irritates me, mostly because my son melts when she says it, which could be why she does it so often. "And answer the goddamn question!"

Cameron gives me a dirty look, which I find amusing, but I suppress my smirk. Reluctantly she explains herself. "I was never a child. I am curious to know what I may have been like as one. I hoped to surreptitiously see Allison grow up, to study her development; perhaps it could help me to understand humanity better. I meant her no harm."

I nod in agreement with her. Odd as it seems, it sounds like the truth. Cameron is certainly odd for a Terminator; certainly unique. I have more questions though.

"She was in 2027 when you were built. Was she there when you went back?" I ask.

"Yes."

"So what happened to her this time?"

"Nothing." John emphatically rejoins the discussion.

"Nothing? She didn't feel the urge to kill her? I mean, a real human girl, who looks just like her, hanging around with you, that musta made her jealous, right?" I turn to Cameron, raising an eyebrow accusingly. The cyborg appears to squirm.

"It was difficult, yes. But Cameron, she understood... understands the situation."

"Really? You recklessly jump to who-knows-where to get back your tin-mistress, only to find her human double. How long did you hold out then, John? Huh? Before you gave up hope of seeing your metal? Before you realized you were a human after all? I mean, I know what guys are like. In that kind of environment, death maybe only minutes away, you act like a monk for five years? You had to have slept with her, she looks just like Cameron, sounds like Cameron... but she's real, right? And human, so no doubts about whether what you're doing is right or wrong, correct? No Derek Reese beating the living shit outta you for fraternizing with the enemy, eh? Just that little conscience of yours worrying what Cameron will do when she finds out. If she finds out. If you ever find her. But sometime in that five years, you musta given up hope of finding her, of getting back here. So you would have turned to the next best thing: Allison, who would not want to be second best. Did you ever tell her about Cameron?"

John ignores my last jibe and stands to confront me, anger writ large on his face.

"I never gave up hope! Hope is all I've ever had, goddammit! Hope that I'm the one to win this war, hope that I'll never have to! Hope that if I do, I won't be alone..." he trails off, bowing his head, clenching his fists by his sides.

Suddenly my boy is back, the son who ran away to the future, the son I refused to follow, the child I abandoned. Deep in the pit of my stomach I feel the shame that I failed him then; that I let him go alone to forge his sword in the fires of hell. I didn't know it would make him the warrior he needs to be; Cameron didn't know he would follow her there. He didn't know what he was doing, only that he had to do it. It's a feeling I realize we all shared: we all did what we thought best, but were we all wrong?

Cameron slides her arms around him from behind, resting her head on the center of his broad back, her hands gently caressing his chest and stomach. I can't hear what she says to him, but it has an effect: he lifts his head and stares straight into my eyes, into my soul. When he speaks, it is in a calm, quiet, measured voice.

"While I have her, I have hope. It's all I need. I'd go to the ends of the earth for her. Yes, I jumped through time; I'd do it again, in an instant. Without her, I'm nothing. So, yeah, Allison was there. She was a nice kid, a good friend; she's special and important in her own way, but she wasn't Cameron, she never will be." Unclenching his fists, he holds the hands that encircle him, peace descending upon his face. There is nothing I can say or do; for better or worse, my son will protect his protector, guard his guardian; love his lover. Even though she's not human; or maybe because of it.

* * *

The next morning we eat a hearty breakfast. The condemned man's last meal? I shouldn't dwell on negative thoughts, but I guess I'm a pessimist. In the safety of our car, I recall the 1940's slogan my Grampa used to quote endlessly: _The Sun Never Sets On The Mighty Jeep. _Hmm, that may well be true, but for now the sun has risen, and so has my son.

"Yes, John Henry …. You're sure about that? It's the last server? …. Yeah, just like to be one hundred percent …. Fine, you sent Cameron the co-ordinates? …. Yesterday? Good, see you there my friend." John shuts down the phone, smiling. "The last piece of his brother has been isolated. We're going to finish it off. For good!"

"So, where is this all going down?" I ask.

John nods at Cameron, granting her permission to speak. "Mexico City," she says quietly.

I watch her reflection in the secondary rear-view mirror, as she in turn looks at me.

"How convenient," I say, sourly. "We're already headed there."


	4. Dealing With The End

_**Part Four – Dealing With The End**_

**_Monday, July 19__th__ 2010; morning..._**

Experts say the first thing a trial lawyer learns is to never ask a question he or she doesn't know the answer to. I need to ask some questions of my son, who is used to tough interviews, used to lying; or as Government bureaucrats call it: _'being economical with the truth.'_ But I take the advice of the 'experts' and additionally decide to lead with a very personal query. It is designed to provoke a reaction; the reaction is what I am interested in, because I have irrefutable evidence to back up my case if necessary.

I am up early as usual, even though this is our first day in our Mexico City apartment. There is no cyborg lurking in the kitchen as there always was in L.A., all too recently. However, they appear together: she with unusually puffy, red eyes, he looking tired and baggy-eyed, as if he has had no sleep. She pours a cup of coffee then places it and a bowl of cereal on the small table in front of him, opposite me. Duty done, she slinks off, but with a quick backward glance at John, who turns as if expecting it. Hidden from my gaze, he makes some expression which causes a smile to appear around her mouth momentarily; but then it is gone and so is she.

"Are you sleeping with her, John?" I ask as he is about to swallow a mouthful of coffee.

"She doesn't sleep. You should know that by now," he says, raising an eyebrow, but I note, failing to choke on his drink or spill a drop.

"As in 'having sex' sleeping."

"That's kinda personal, don't you think?"

"You're still my son, the future didn't change that, right? You used to be able to talk to me about everything," I say in my best mom voice. At least, what I hope is a mom voice.

"Yeah, right!" he scoffs. "Like the correct way to clean a weapon, or the most appropriate ambush point or the best dried field rations to stockpile; but girls, love, sex... no freaking way! They weren't on your lesson plan for the future savior; I hadda learn the hard way, for myself.

"I naively fell for the first girl to show any interest in me; then worse – I shoved her away, grabbing onto the nearest passing opportunity; but she was a set up, sent to play with my feelings, to be a dupe for some misjudged future-changing plan. Well, it changed the future alright, just not the way they expected, but maybe... the way they really wanted?" He pauses as if this has just come to him. "Did they want a future without John Connor? I thought they just wanted Cameron outta the way..." He shrugs, dismissing the thought, then starts on his cereal.

"It looks like you haven't slept. And her, well I dunno, but if she were human, I'd say she's been crying all night."

"Right on both counts," he says between mouthfuls.

"Why would she cry? They don't feel anything, you know that," I remind him. Again.

"Wrong. She does. If you must know, when she discovers something new about herself, she works to understand it and control it, so that it doesn't get in the way. She was upset about something, and needed to get it out of her system. It's what she does. She's trying to learn how to control things in hours, things that take us years."

"What was it that upset her?" I ask, not concealing my sarcasm.

"Me," he says bluntly.

I try to find out more, but he just gives me a sour look, and carries on with his breakfast.

"What about when she discovers anger?"

"Been there, done that."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You don't wanna go there," he says with more than a hint of finality.

Well, my 'mommy cares' talk isn't working, but it doesn't matter now, it can't be undone. Some things can be, with time travel, but unless someone comes back from the future to tell us, we have no way of knowing what effect our actions have down the years. From what Derek told Cameron, the future that Jesse Flores came from seemed to have had John and Cameron together for two decades, with a debilitating outcome for the Resistance's confidence in John.

Perhaps that future was one where they took my advice and ran, instead of breaking me out of jail. John might have totally relied on Cameron for guidance, perhaps coming to trust her alone. She may not have developed as she clearly has in the time they spent in the future. She obviously now cares for John in a way that is far more than some mission parameter; it is not just his continued existence that occupies her thoughts, or whatever processes go on in her head. She obsesses over every detail from his food to his fitness regime, his weapons practice to his fashion sense, his learning to his recreation; she makes time for everything, yet never nags him. She has a clever way of making him think it's all his idea whether they go to the park or the target range. She's manipulating him, but I think he knows it really. Is it manipulation if you let yourself be manipulated? I guess not.

John is a man with a lot of weight on his shoulders; some of that burden he lets her carry. She's good at organizing these details, so he's delegated that side of life to her, while he gets on with the remainder. What that is, he keeps close to the vest. I am only allowed to know the bare minimum of his plans, and only then just before our missions. When I meet the people he has assembled to help out on certain of the operations, I don't get introduced. I wonder where they come from, whether John sent them back in time before he returned himself, or if they are just convenient muscle for hire. Neither John nor Cameron enlighten me: it's 'need to know' and I clearly don't need to know.

John was not fooled by my plan to make him spill the beans on his relationship with the cyborg. Should I be pleased? Maybe. I just want to know if he has any doubts about it. As he said, he fell for her right off, but tried to keep his distance, not least because myself, Charley and Derek warned him off fraternizing with the enemy. I think all we did was force him into a corner, where there was nothing left for him _but_ her, the doe-eyed Terminator. Life would be easier if I could come to think she's perfect for him, but I doubt I'll ever feel that way about her kind. For now I take the pragmatic approach. If I put too much pressure on him, I will surely drive him away. Again. But I have one last question, though I wonder where I lost the shame that would hold most back from asking it of their son.

"So, does she have the equipment necessary? For sex? I mean, does SkyNet think that far ahead?" _There, I said it._

"I do, and yes, SkyNet does think that far ahead."

I jump, and curse once again at Cameron's ability to sneak in like a silent assassin. My attention is called to a sound I haven't heard in a while: John is laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a real belly-laugh. The tin-mistress is smirking too, not afraid to show her feelings now. Well, okay, I deserved that, but I got a response out of him and I know he isn't ashamed of her. The time may come when he has to defend her presence to his allies: he will need to be one hundred percent sure of himself, and her, to win them over. Vague bullshit doesn't carry the day when your backs are to the wall.

* * *

_**Tuesday, July 20th 2010; morning...**_

Cameron has gone out to buy a new dress for Thursday. She'll probably find something for John as well; I just hope she doesn't decide to get me a 'mother-of-the-groom' outfit, if such a thing exists. Mothers of brides seem to have to wear the most ridiculous costumes: in order that their offspring look half-decent compared to their mom? It's all strange to me. A sneaky peak in their room under the auspices of vacuuming turned up a copy of _**Bride-To-Be Monthly**_, sub-titled: _THE guide for the bride-to-be! _Its headline article: _The Top Ten Dos And Don'ts For A Successful Wedding Night!_ Ha! I mentally start a list suitable for a Terminator…

_Number 1: don't invite your evil computer 'father' to the reception, or his henchmen;_

_Number 2: don't invite any renegade time-traveling Resistance members either;_

_Number 3: don't forget to wear white, it'll test your ability to lie convincingly..._

"What are you snickering at?" my son asks.

I put down my mid-morning coffee, and quit my daydreaming. "Oh, nothing, nothing! But tell me, whose idea was this, the wedding, marriage?"

"Mine," he replies.

"Really?" I'm skeptical, after seeing that magazine.

"Yes," he replies, with a hint of anger. _Interesting_...

"It's just that it doesn't seem like such a good idea to me," I say, not trying to defuse the situation. I still want him to respond genuinely, no matter how he feels; I want to see something real from him.

"How so?" is all he says, calm again, reining his anger back in.

"You don't think being with metal, let alone married to one, won't cause problems? Five years in the future has done nothing for your naivety, John!" Now I'm the one in danger of losing it.

"You think I haven't thought of that?" he says, sounding incredulous. "No matter what the future brings, we're gonna be together. Her being my wife solves all the problems. No more brother/sister, friend/girlfriend/whatever arguments: people will see our rings, see we're together: end of discussion."

"But not the end of your problems!" I interject; but he carries on regardless.

"She's my best friend, my partner in all this..." He spreads his hands out with a look of exasperation on his face as he tries unsuccessfully to find a word that encapsulates our world, then continues: "She's my partner in every way, in every thing. Who else could live this life we have? Who better to be my wife?

"You left Charley when you got too close; you told me to leave Riley alone because of the risks that come with the Connor territory; none of that matters to Cameron though. She's built to handle that sort of crap; she wants yours truly to survive long enough to fulfill my destiny, and she'll die making sure that it happens. But if we succeed in stopping SkyNet for good; if we actually make our own fate, she won't just up and leave me: she's here for the long-haul. Even if I never become the leader of the Resistance, if I'm just some nobody, she's gonna be with me every step of the way, because she wants to, not because she's programmed. If that's not love, I dunno what is. And it's not like I have anything else to offer."

Hmm. Nice speech. Of course I could say: _"What else would she do?"_ But I don't. Yet. "You're too modest, John. Apart from the obvious, what do you see in her? That would make you deny her true nature?"

He snorts derisively. "I don't deny that she is a cyborg, a Terminator. I know exactly what she is. Yeah, on the outside she's a beautiful woman; on the inside she's built different. But in here," he taps his head, "she's beautiful too. She's a combination of incredible intelligence and naïve innocence. She sees the world in a way that's so different to us, I'm constantly amazed by her. But the kicker is, she wants to learn all the time, wants to know how I see the world too. So we have that to share: we learn from each other, continually."

He doesn't bang home these points with a loud voice or a thump of the table; he doesn't even make it sound like a speech: it's just a conversation with his mom and he's outlining the most reasonable course of action for the next day's activities. So I adopt a matching tone, try to be reasonable.

"Why a church?" This I am genuinely curious about.

He shrugs some tension out of his shoulders, stifles a yawn. "It won't matter what name we use, we'll be legally married," he says.

"Only if you're both Roman Catholic. And last I heard, you aren't," I state. "Unless that's where you've been sneaking off to?"

"No," he chuckles. "Anyway, whether it's more legal or not, I want to do the right thing by her."

"You're an old-fashioned guy at heart," I say with some warmth and a little pride.

"Yeah, maybe. Really, it's all about the promises that we make to each other. We don't need the piece of paper or rings for ourselves, but they are symbols of the promises we'll make. We'll just make them in a special place with special people to witness it. It kinda puts a stamp on it, makes it seem real, when so much of our lives, including our name, is fake."

"So why do you want James Ellison there? Is he 'special people?' I mean, Cameron told me you thought he'd set up my arrest and then gave her the coded message to leave you."

"Before? No, I guess not... But in the future, in the war, I saw things, I did things... I met Ellison there. He was someone you could talk to; you know, really talk to. He'd seen and done it all, yet he kept his focus. I'd see him out and about, joking or praising, cajoling or tearing a strip: whatever was needed; he did what was necessary. He was a good man to be around, to have around when the crap hit the fan. Then one day, I saw what he could really do: our patrol came under fire; we were scattered and isolated in pockets. One guy was hit out in the open. The metal didn't go for him, or finish him off. They waited for us to come out for him. It was torture. He couldn't finish himself off, we couldn't hit him; the cries, screams – Mom, you never heard anything like it, I'm telling you... but James just said he was going, and he went. He helped that poor guy pass on easier… then he got tagged by the metal himself. I saw him give the sign: don't leave me alive, so I took the shot. It was like putting a wounded animal down, but afterward... I dunno, but I tried to avoid all that gung-ho revenge crap, tried to be calm and focused like James, keeping a space inside for something better."

I've never seen him so serious, not even when he killed Danny Dyson. Then he was detached, uncaring. But something burns within him, from that time in the future. Is it what drives him on, to prevent having to go through it all again?

"I understand, John, really. We've met many people like that, on our travels. I'm just curious – is 'our' Ellison the same guy? Does he act the same?"

"Well, he hasn't lived through J-Day, with a certain 'Most Wanted Terrorist' right behind him going, '_Told you!'_" He pauses to laugh at his own joke and I join in, even though it's at my expense; still, I can afford it. John continues, "But he's definitely on our team in the here and now, and if it came down to it, I'm sure he'd be that guy again. So I want him there. It will also hopefully make him realize how important he is to our team, make him feel special."

So, it's part-motivation, part-reward. Nothing's straightforward with my son these days. But was it ever?

"The future, having to kill, I'm just... you haven't mentioned it at all, since you came back," I say as tenderly as I can.

"No? Well I guess it doesn't sit easy with me. I dunno. Maybe Cameron has something to say there. She's not afraid to tell me I'm being an asshole."

"Really? She has changed. She didn't seem to want you to see how she felt about you, certainly when you, er... _dealt_ with Danny Dyson."

"No," he corrects, "she didn't want to appear to be like Allison. Allison was so much more animated. When Cameron does 'human', it's a wrench for me. So she tries to avoid it, when it's just us. But I know she'll have to put on the front pretty much all the time now: guess I'll just have to get used to it."

"And I'll have to get used to you two being married?"

"'Fraid so," he says with a shrug.

"Well, if you're set on this course of action, you might wanna consider getting a haircut: you look a mess, John."

He squirms slightly. Score one for the Mother's Union!

* * *

_**Wednesday, July 21**__**st**__** 2010; morning...**_

We are dropped off by John at a quite expensive-looking clinic. "Only the best for you, Mom," he says. How sweet of him. Cameron marches off, but pauses at the door to wave goodbye to John. He must be meeting John Henry, or she'd make him come with us. Unless all that 'love, honor and obey' crap is starting to screw with her logic. "And Mom? Try not to argue with her; _please?_" he adds, disguising the order with niceties.

"Me? As if..." I turn and follow my soon-to-be Terminator-in-law into the clinic.

She is speaking Spanish to the receptionist, using a local accent too. "This is Sarah Matthews. She has a 10AM appointment."

The receptionist smiles warmly at both of us, perhaps grateful for the bucket-load of US Dollars we will be spending here today. "Is this your daughter?" she asks.

I am momentarily flummoxed by the fact that I appear to be old enough to be Cameron's mother, despite her no longer dressing or styling her hair and makeup in a teenage fashion. "Er, no she's my son's... um... girlfriend," I reply.

"Fiancée," corrects Metal Minnie, smugly.

"Ooh, very nice! Pretty girl, yes?" coos the receptionist. I'm gonna examine the check thoroughly; make sure she's not slipped any 'extras' on there_._

"Yes, she is," I say with false enthusiasm. "I can't wait for my first grandchild!" I put my right arm around Cameron's shoulders and hug her in a way I've seen men do in beer commercials. Well, you'd have to be drunk to hug a Terminator. Or John Connor, I realize bitterly. My strange behavior upsets her infiltration protocol, or whatever it is that she calls it when she's faking human and the smile is certainly wiped off her face at the mention of babies.

While the receptionist taps away at her keyboard, I whisper in Cameron's ear. "Get used to it, girlie. It's a tough life being a Connor: if you're gonna be one, you'll face worse than that!"

Incredibly, she just nods her acceptance. I thought she'd list all the crap she's had to face as a Baum and then a Gage, but no. Oh well, I didn't want to pick a fight with her anyway, at least not in the reception area.

The receptionist looks up from her screen, and informs us that we are to wait in Consulting Room Five. "Just down that corridor on the left. There will be a gown for you to change into. The nurse will be along shortly." She smiles and then grabs a phone that has started ringing. She dismisses us with a curt wave.

Consulting Room Five has a small window with a view outside into a pleasant courtyard garden; a bland painting of the sort found in mid-price hotels; a medical bed; and a chair. I motion Cameron into the latter. "Pretend you're tired." She flops down theatrically, like a bored teenager, which makes me laugh. I catch the twitch of her lips, as she halts a smirk from appearing there.

"So, do you enjoy it?" I ask casually, as I start getting changed.

"It?" she replies.

"You know... 'it'..." I ask again, but raise my eyebrows to add emphasis, before realizing how pathetically comedic this would look to a human girl. Because Cameron might not have real emotions, this may not matter; but the fact that she appears to have something developing in that department makes this just as embarrassing as my mother/son discussion with John on Monday.

"No," she says, looking blankly at me. Has she answered my question or is she still not getting what I am hinting at? I look expectantly at her, hoping her body-language reading skills are good enough that she can get this at least. It would appear they are.

"I'm sorry Sarah, but I don't understand," she says after a pause.

I sigh deeply and dramatically, in a way I think suitable for a mother; certainly my mom did it to me often enough. _Oh my god! I've turned into my mother!_ I start to chuckle, which produces a curious response in Cameron: she laughs too, a little crinkle appearing on the bridge of her nose.

"I should know that I can't fool you, Sarah. You are referring to sexual intercourse, are you not?"

"Er, yeah but that's not why I was… oh, never mind! So?"

"So?"

I'm irked by her dragging it out again. "I bet you enjoy torturing people!"

"It's a means to an end, but enjoy? No."

"You're enjoying this!" I accuse.

She smiles again; it's a smirk really. "Yes, I am."

"Hmmph! Remember where we are, and who's the one with the dumb gown that reveals her ass when she's out in the corridor. To all those leering men."

She looks suitably chastised, then abruptly changes to a serious expression. "John is attentive and considerate."

"Really? But does he make you sleep on the damp patch?" I arch an eyebrow and gauge her response.

"I don't sleep," she says, as if I am particularly dense.

"Uh-huh. But you spend the night with him, awake or in standby, or whatever. It means the same: you're there with him, sharing his bed. So?"

"John is an attentive and considerate lover," she says carefully, staring me down.

"Right." Now I _am_ embarrassed. I clear my throat. "That's good to know. Really," I mumble. She obviously takes it as a sign to carry on.

"I enjoy any time I spend with him, but time alone together is special. He makes me feel alive, wanted, valued. Loved. It is beyond anything I could have ever imagined: to love and be loved in return. I feel special because he loves me."

She's gazing out the window, that 'only-for-John' smile on her face, seemingly like a love-lorn teenager. More likely replaying the two of them going at it like rabbits last night. Damn those thin walls in the low-rent places we frequent!

I am saved from further excruciating memories by the arrival of the nurse to take my blood. After that I have an orange-flavored drink laced with something to illuminate my insides in the CT scanner. While waiting for it to do its work, I have one last go at her.

"You do realize that in the future you won't be anything other than his bodyguard, if you're even that lucky. Once people know what you are, they won't stand for it. They may even hang him out to dry, for being a traitor."

"Yes, we've talked of it. It upset me that he was willing to die, to let the world _"go to hell"_ as he put it, just to be with me. Of course, it also gives me a great sense of how much he values me, how much he loves me. So, I am in two minds about it."

"Do you have a plan, in case Judgment Day does come around?"

"Yes," she sighs, causing me to gawp. "I have a plan for everything. But so does John, though it would appear that his are often not logical. However he did remind me that Future-John got to lead the resistance by means other than his good looks. Unfortunately I still don't understand fully what he means by that."

"You don't?" I ask, incredulous.

"No. Is he good-looking?" she replies innocently.

"Yes, of course! Well, I'm his mother, naturally I'd say that, but... Of course he's good-looking, surely you can see that?"

"By the principles of axiality and planar balance, the delineation of his features does fall within parameters that a high percentile of women would respond to in a positive way. However, I am not a woman."

"Hmm, clearly not. Next time he's feeling a little frisky, just spout that gobbledygook at him. You'll be guaranteed a quiet night of... whatever it is that you do at night."

"I –"

"Hush! I really don't wanna know! Okay?"

"Okay."

I can't help chuckling. "So, the love of his life doesn't even like his winning smile, let alone those emerald eyes? Too much!"

"_Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind_," she quotes.

"What?" I ask.

"It's from Shakespeare's '_A Midsummer Night's Dream,'" _she explains.

"Oh! _Love is blind, _you mean?"

"Yes, that is an effective paraphrasing of it."

"I guess that works for both of you then."

* * *

The whole process takes up the rest of the morning. The irksomely cheery doctor, who looks barely old enough to shave, tells me that my results won't be ready in less than forty-eight hours. I try to bargain him down to twenty-four, but unlike Scotty in '_Star Trek'_, he's having none of it. I tell him to text me either way, good news or bad. I'm redressed minutes after he leaves the room, while Cameron settles the check. A short cell call from her, and my son is quickly in the car park to greet us.

"How'd it go?" he inquires.

I look at Cameron and reply: "About even. I'd call it a tie."

John is momentarily confused, then realization dawns, for him as well as me.

"I meant..." we say together, then laugh. We both look at the frowning face Cameron is making, and laugh some more. She folds her arms and looks out the window, rolling her eyes. I stop laughing when I realize that I am in the front passenger seat, alongside my son, gazing at his fiancée in the back. I smile my appreciation quickly at her, when she glances in my direction: she has placed me beside my son again, so subtly I almost missed it. Almost. I turn back to him.

"Gonna buy your old mom some dinner?" I cheerfully ask, patting his right forearm.

"Sure," he replies, half-grinning. He checks the rear-view mirror, not just for oncoming traffic, before pulling away.

* * *

_**Thursday, July 22nd 2010; afternoon...**_

The radio in our Jeep is tuned into a station that plays 'Oldies' rock music. Today it has mainly been from the Eighties; I realize with a shudder that this makes me officially _old_. Thanks to our eight-year time jump I am not as old as I should be, but my son did another couple of jumps of his own and is now only thirteen years younger than me, though sometimes he seems much older than my supposed age.

Right now however, he is acting about five years-old, having a water-pistol fight with his new wife. They laugh and giggle, playing, ending up in a huddle on the dry, harsh grass of the park we are presently within. Perhaps ruining the dress she bought for this morning's occasion. Still, it was reasonably cheap. Tasteful too, I'll give her that. Shame about John's hair though. He sheared it off himself, badly; Cameron was not pleased at all. Next time, she'll be in charge of the clippers, I'll bet! Despite that, the picture I have of the two of them on my cellphone, from outside the church this morning, looks pretty good but I still have mixed emotions about seeing their smiling faces. I cannot deny though that hers is genuine.

Uncaring of what passers-by, or indeed his mother, might think, John carefully, tenderly moves the loose strands of hair from Cameron's face, then kisses her annoyingly pouty lips. Before I can avert my gaze, her arms encircle him and her fingers dance across his back.

My son is married, I am a mother-in-law; now that does make me feel old! I thank the god I don't believe in that I will not be a grandmother anytime soon. I promised John I wouldn't ruin this day for him. As we are soon going to spend a night destroying the entity that has stalked me since 1983, I won't begrudge him this moment of happiness, even if he is sharing it with SkyNet's ultimate creation: Cameron Phillips, whom he once called the world's finest killing machine. But is John Connor himself not worthy of that title, as the savior of mankind and vanquisher of SkyNet?

Presently, we will find out if the knowledge and experience he gained through his five years spent in a future that did not know his guiding hand, if the alliance he has forged with the off-shoot of SkyNet known as John Henry, if the love and support he gets from his new wife and old mother will be sufficient. Sufficient to wipe the slate clean, rewrite the future. John's father told me the future is not set, but every time we meddle, we merely change the pieces on the board, set ourselves a new challenge. I want to clear the board; more than that, utterly destroy it, consign it to non-history, non-future. To stop playing games at all.

I reach into the Jeep's chilled glove-box to get a small bottle of water, grateful that for once we have a car with decent spec, not the basic models that usually go with our our low-rent lifestyle; though of course it is some six years-old, so not totally beyond our apparent means. I am dehydrated and the car offers shade, but no protection from the heat and humidity of Mexico City on a July afternoon. It is only the second time in over a year that I have been allowed in the front seat, but only because the two more recent occupants are canoodling a few hundred yards away.

In the distance I see an old man with his pet dog, a small, fat, yappy mongrel. As it squats to do its business my mother's instinct kicks in; I am about to warn John about what might be laying in wait for him in the grass but then Terminator sense overrides the alert. Cameron, despite appearing to be casually rolling about with him, has assessed the threat level of the dog and its arsenal, and reacts accordingly: she rises gracefully and guides her man away from danger, glaring at the pooch. It seems to smirk at her, but I may have imagined that. The heat is getting to me, amongst other things.

I guess Cameron must rein in her power at all times with John, so as not to crush his fragile bones in her mechanical grip. Perhaps she has a 'treat-John-with-kid-gloves' setting? One day I must ask her. _One day?_ I keep saying that, but will I live to see that day?

I realize that for the first time I am curious about how she sees the world. I used to simplify her outlook into threats to John and non-threats. The fact that anything, me included, could be interpreted as a threat to John I found disturbing, because she had only one way of dealing with threats: termination. It was a simple choice for her, or rather not a choice at all, which horrified me. But it would seem that as she spent more time with us, that choice became complicated. I saw those developments in her as a weakness, a way to force John to get rid of her, but though he denied it and held her at arms-length, he had already fallen under her spell. She had become a _person,_ try though I might to portray her as a tool to be disposed of when obsolete or redundant. Or dangerous.

But I didn't get this far in my fight with SkyNet by being sentimental, so for the time being I remain realistic. John needs Cameron right now, or thinks he does, so I let them enjoy this brief moment. After all, I had one similar with his father. The intensity of that interlude and the loss afterward has driven me along ever since. Perhaps if John were to suffer the same way? Could I inflict such a punishment on him, on top of everything else I have burdened him with?

* * *

_**Friday, July 23rd 2010; morning...**_

Well, today's the day. The day we win. The day I've always hoped would come, but prepared for in case it didn't.

Last night I went to bed early, leaving John and Cameron to their wedding night frolics. I stuffed some cotton wool in my ears and tried to read '_Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'_ again. I was soon asleep.

I stride into the kitchen, following the smell of all things breakfast. John is indulging in bacon and scrambled eggs, while our very own Cat Cora prepares pancakes, just the way 'Johnny' likes 'em. Grabbing a cup of coffee, I try to resist the lure of the plate she has set out for me. I give in to temptation, but only on the basis that I need the fuel to last through this longest of days.

"Food's good, isn't it, Mom?" smirks my son.

"Yes it is, son. But don't talk while you're eating," I respond. Cameron does that mouth twitch thing again.

* * *

_**Later that afternoon...**_

We get a call on Cameron's cell. "He's here," she says. John nods. I contain the urge to demand I be let in on the secret; I'll know shortly anyhow, but I still feel like a spare wheel.

John opens the door carefully, keeping to one side, his Beretta 92FS in one hand behind his back. Cameron holds the Heckler & Koch G36 ready, waiting center-stage for the unexpected. I rack the slide on my Remington Eight-Seventy; then I see that huge man with a child-like expression on his face come into our home.

"Hello, Ms. Connor," John Henry says.

So much for security! What happened to using our assumed names? I can barely acknowledge this other machine, without remembering how he manhandled me twice: first back in 1999, when he looked so different; then again after we had jumped eight years into the future, when he appeared much as he does now, only without expression. Then it occurs to me that Cameron treated me much the same way during her _"reversion,"_ as she so carefully expressed it. Although with a Terminator it's not a question of being 'bad' or 'evil': they exist to kill, doing so is just what they do, just as dogs chase cats and crap on your lawn. But my son would likely beg to differ with me on that, at least when it comes to the cyborg wearing a plain gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

"Hello, John Henry," I manage to say, as I make the Eight-Seventy safe. As I do so, I hear the other two safeties click on, and some tension dissipates from the room.

Cromartie is no more. I destroyed that chip, though Cameron would have liked to have studied it. Perhaps she could have helped John to reprogram it, so that she would not have had to give over her chip to this new incarnation? I feel as though my instincts have failed me; the need to crush every last piece of these machines has led us to places we should not have visited, and yet here we are, on the brink of victory. Is it my destiny to plow on regardless, until my son vanquishes SkyNet, or just until I have nothing more to give, no spark of life left in this tired body?

For the best part of twenty years I have lived with the threat of death from these machines, yet here they are discussing strategy and plans for our assault on Kaliba's final outpost, SkyNet's last stand. Will it work, letting them do the work? I still do not trust them fully: it is difficult to let go of something that is so ingrained in me that it has become instinct; it's as if it is hardwired in me.

* * *

_**Later that evening...**_

Cameron places a small charge in the sub-station, which handles both power and telecommunications for this industrial district, then returns to our recently-stolen vehicle, an anonymous mid-size station-wagon.

"The C-4 is in place, the remote detonator is armed," she announces.

"Are you sure this is enough? Or not too much?" I ask.

They both turn and look at me like I'm the class idiot. John fails to conceal his sigh.

"Cameron is good at making bombs. Has been since we first met her. Remember back at the Dyson's, L.A. '99? Cromartie, her old truck: _ka-boom!_ Plus the other little bomb, right honey?"

She smiles knowingly back at him. Oh please, save me from a smug cyborg! And why do married men get so lovey-dovey so quickly? _"Honey"_... Geez! Is there a barf-bag in here?

"So we're good to go?" I ask. They both nod. "Then what are we waiting for?"

John starts the car, while Cameron cuts the power and phone lines by triggering her C-4 explosive device. According to John Henry we have five minutes before anyone can get here to investigate why the building's emergency generator has had to kick in. We have a small window of twelve seconds between the small explosion and the generator coming online, time enough for John Henry to force the door. As we get to the building, he is waiting there with the door open. Cameron and him go in first, then me, John last. We spread out towards the sides, setting a flanking pattern. John Henry is unarmed, and in complete contrast to his previous persona, does not take lives directly. The dozy security guard comes out of his small room to investigate our entry, but is cut down by two shots from the Beretta and a burst from Cameron's machine gun. With a swipe of his neck, she confirms that he has expired. It is unclear which of the two got the kill shot; that is probably deliberate on Cameron's part. John is unconcerned about another life taken, continuing to sweep the cold building. When it is declared 'all clear' we pause to take stock. But not for long: we have only four minutes left.

John Henry sits at a console, where he opens up the laptop he has brought along. He connects a lead between the two machines, then gives that curious, hopeful smile to Cameron, and I hear the distinctive sound of her pocket knife swishing open, then locking into place. She opens him up and removes his chip, for insertion into a special holder on the laptop which allows him direct access to the mainframes in this building, which John called a _"server farm."_ What John Henry does I have yet to fully comprehend, but it involves him over-writing the SkyNet/Kaliba code. With what, I don't know, but Cameron and John have assured me it is not malevolent to humans. Well, hopefully we won't find out we're wrong like the last two times we thought we'd beaten Cyberdyne. Hopefully, we won't _be_ wrong.

The laptop screen flickers with a constantly scrolling display of what appears to me to be gibberish. Three minutes left. I join John in watching the door. After a further minute and a half, Cameron declares it done.

"It's finished? Gone for good?" I ask, somewhat incredulous at the speed of it all.

"Yes, finished," she says.

"There's no more of it lurking anywhere else?"

"No, John Henry was most thorough. That was the last remnant," she states.

"Good," I say, raising my Eight-Seventy and squeezing the trigger gently, in text book fashion.

The laptop disintegrates before Cameron can jump in the way. I cycle the action and release another load of hot pellets into the shattered computer, aiming for John Henry's chip. It is with great satisfaction that I see it shredded into so much scrap. I stand over the remnants of the laptop and fire one more blast into it for good measure, before turning on the mainframe's console. Whatever is in there now, it isn't coming out.

"Geez Mom, what the hell are you doing?" demands my son. I turn and face him.

"What I always do, John: what needs to be done. There's to be no coming back from this, so all parts need to be destroyed and burnt with thermite. And I do mean all," I declare, looking him in the eye before turning to Cameron.

He is annoyed that I have acted unilaterally, reclaiming my place at the head of the family; but now something else dawns on him.

"No, no freaking way! Not her! I won't let you do this Mom!" he shouts, moving quickly in front of her, placing himself between my barrel and his wife. "It's bad enough you've just destroyed John Henry: that's a hell of a good resource we've lost, just because you're pissed at the world. You can't keep up, so you wanna–"

"That's enough, John!" I shout back. "You know I'm right: there can be no 'happy ever after' with her, with machines roaming around free. They've gotta go. She's gotta go. Every. Last. Piece."

The barrel of my shotgun is still pointing at my son; I know it cannot harm Cameron in a meaningful way: I want her to submit to chip extraction and burning as John Henry did, albeit the latter unwittingly. "Someone's here," she says. "Six minutes, twenty-three seconds: longer than forecast," she adds as an after-thought.

The Kaliba goons are not well-trained: they rush through the doorway firing their weapons, but run straight into the line of fire. Unfortunately we are not so well-positioned either. By forcing John to protect Cameron from me, I have placed him in mortal danger. I instinctively advance on the enemy to cut down their view of my son and return their fire, though my weapon is less effective at distance than theirs. I have suffered gunshot wounds before, but not so many in such a short time-span. I am thrown backwards onto the floor, so that I can only see the strangely-patterned tiles of the suspended ceiling. They shatter and burst in a seemingly random fashion, as I follow the course of the bullets hitting them back down the room, until they end, above the heads of the two Kaliba men, who collapse symmetrically as they continue to be hit by bullets from behind me. Their guns go silent as they hit the floor like puppets whose strings have been cut. Hmm, so John has been busy on the practice range, and Cameron is a Terminator that actually hits the target!

Talk of the devil! Here she is, kneeling alongside me, scanning me. "Don't move, Mom. We'll get you to a doctor."

Did she just call me _Mom?_ Or was it John? I can't tell. "Don't forget the C-4... and thermite everything!" I splutter.

"Don't worry, we've set it all up. Now, be quiet and don't move," John says. _Well,_ _it must be him_, I think.

_I might have blacked out there for a minute or two..._

_I feel cold, then an odd floating feeling..._

_Something smells of peaches... Cameron's shampoo smells of peaches... Mine doesn't; I like it plain... I once went on a plane, in South America... America, land of the free, home of... I want to go home... I think I am running home... running for my life..._

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ if it's not clear enough, the ending above is Sarah starting to hallucinate after being shot and given first aid, before being carried to safety by Cameron._

_The next chapter is an interlude of sorts. While Sarah is unconscious, it deals with some of her earlier memories and reveals more of the details only hinted at so far. It starts just after John Connor & John Henry have returned from 2032 with Cameron's chip, and ends as they begin their campaign to fight the future, but still some time before Danny Dyson is found._


	5. Dealing With The Past

_**Part Five – Dealing With The Past**_

**[AN INTERLUDE, OF SORTS]**

_**Friday, April 10th 2009; 10 minutes after John Connor has returned from 2032...**_

We are running headlong towards the car park, John wearing a shirt and pants that are far too big for him, courtesy of John Henry's spare wardrobe. While John seems to be assisting Cameron, she is helping him by holding his pants tight! If we were in any situation other than running for our lives, I would find it comical. _Maybe later._

We reach the car deck: James Ellison is taking John Henry to collect Savannah Weaver and then... Well, who knows? John takes Ellison's cell-phone, telling him to get a disposable replacement and contact us. Ellison is perhaps too surprised by the events of the last half-hour to argue. He has gone from finding out that his boss is a liquid-metal Terminator, while under attack from some futuristic aircraft, to seeing my son disappear a boy, then reappear minutes later as a man. And not just any man, but a soldier from the future war that was mankind's last stand.

I am instructed to drive, firstly because John has not driven for some time and secondly, Cameron still has the damage from when she broke me out of L.A. County Jail this morning. Although I note, from occasional glances in the rear-view mirror and to my right, that this is not hindering their closeness. We head out of town, avoiding any sort of toll road or areas with heavy concentrations of traffic cameras. I had expected my son and his cyborg to run south, to Mexico, but for reasons I don't yet know they disobeyed me. Time will tell if they chose the right option, but for now we have to make the most of what we have.

John thinks we should head for Nevada, specifically Las Vegas. With its population commonly boosted by itinerant vacationers, three more strangers won't stand out. Cameron is going to need plenty of time to heal. I haven't asked yet if her eye will re-grow or if we will have to 'acquire' a new one, for I am certain that she will be with us permanently now. The responses of the two of them since her reactivation make it abundantly clear that my fears over her presence in John's life have come to pass. I have not forgotten that he basically ignored me when he returned; his first and only thought was for her.

From the little he has said, I now know he was away five years. _Five years!_ He looks different, older obviously, but harder too. If he looked haunted before, he has banished those ghosts in his time away; but there is something else in his eyes now, and he carries himself with greater authority.

He has told me that he had to earn his way in the Resistance, such as it was, despite Derek and Kyle Reese being prominent. Of course, he couldn't reveal his relationship to them. He said that he had a friend in whom he eventually confided the details of his time-jump, when he was sure that she wouldn't have him put in the stockade for being a lunatic. He learned that from me; seems that even in a future full of killer robots, no-one wants to hear that the impossible is real and possible. I note for future reference that his friend was female, but probe no further, while he holds Cameron's hand as if he dare not let go. He is in the passenger seat but leans back, his left arm outstretched behind us, his face rarely veering from hers despite the damage she displays.

If there is any consolation to be drawn from all this, it is that I have raised a son who stays true to the woman he loves, no matter the time and distance apart, or the disfigurement she has suffered. On my behalf, I realize. She took so much damage because she freed me without killing a single person; I wonder if this is part of what we tried to teach her? Admittedly I usually just barked orders or abuse at her, but maybe John took the time to explain it all to her. Certainly they spent many hours just talking. And I would hear that "_Thank you…"_ phrase of hers so often it got to be like a nervous tic; I wanted to comment but John seemed to appreciate her saying it, which in itself was something for me to dislike. But you can't spend all day haranguing your kids: you have to pick your battles. Also, I could not deny her usefulness, though I did try to ditch her and Derek Reese at one point, all for naught. It got Charley Dixon killed, and probably was a factor in Derek's abrupt death.

End result was that last night I was languishing in jail, looking to serve out my days, or until Judgment Day at best. A possibility would be that SkyNet might have sent a Terminator to break me out, in hopes of drawing John out of hiding. I wonder what Cameron would have done? Well, judging by today's events, probably gotten John killed. She seemed to be not doing as he ordered. Was she following Future-John's orders this morning, as she once claimed, or her own agenda? What about now, will she follow my John? I guess so, but maybe like me, she's just assessing the situation.

I wonder if the extra damage she has taken today will worsen her ability to protect John; if the decisions she has taken are the result of damage she received in the Jeep explosion so long ago. I sent her out to get my son a birthday cake, hoping to surprise him in a pleasant way for once. It turned out to be not such a good day, for so many reasons, but there were certainly surprises galore. Cameron began to exhibit changes almost immediately after John spared her from destruction, but I never had time to dwell on them. Will she still evolve, or is this it? What of the chip that John put back in her skull? Is it new, or the original?

As night falls, my eyes are distracted by the lights of other vehicles. I find it harder to judge distance and speed, then note that I cannot recall the last few miles I have driven. Realizing that I am about to fall asleep, John suggests I pull over to the side of the road. That he spots this is a sign that he is more observant these days, not totally absorbed by his friend's predicament. I pull over to the side of the road, but the next thing I know, I am waking up in a comfortable bed in a Vegas motel, to find that it is the following day.

At a table sit my son and Cameron, sharing a chicken salad ready-meal. They smile shyly at each other, but John's turns into a broad grin when Cameron points out that I am awake. Well, that's nice: finally he seems pleased to see his mother.

He informs me that TV news channels have been broadcasting that we are all dead, killed in an_ "ill-fated attack on ZeiraCorp headquarters."_ They suggest that Catherine Weaver was killed too, but with no bodies or DNA evidence for corroboration of any of our deaths, CCTV footage of us entering the building was all they had to go on. Some images of my jailbreak were also shown, but Cameron's disfigurement was not featured in either. Footage from after the explosion in Weaver's office is non-existent, so they rely on the word of ZeiraCorp's chief security officer, "_FBI veteran James Ellison"_ that none of us escaped. Any word of his supposed collusion with us in the 'kidnap' of Savannah Weaver is not mentioned. _Surprise, surprise!_ It would appear that the fire sprinkler system failed to operate in the Zeira building, allowing blazes to rage in the basement and around Weaver's office, destroying those files and research work that the explosions missed. Ellison cannot reveal if off-site backups were kept, but knowing the way his boss kept a tight hold of the reins, he thinks it is unlikely. ZeiraCorp's stock value has plummeted, but it would appear that the Weaver home was fully paid-up and there is a large trust fund for the maintenance of Savannah Weaver well into adulthood. Her nominated guardians? James Ellison and a hitherto unknown distant cousin to her father Lachlan, from Nova Scotia, Canada going by the name of John Henry Weaver. Well, that side of things is all wrapped up neatly, however the hell that bitch managed to achieve it before taking my son to the future. I hope that poor child can survive with those two, but after she was targeted by SkyNet, she'll need some serious protection.

John confirms that it was indeed John Henry who took care of the selective CCTV footage, in addition to opening the locks in the jail to aid Cameron's progress yesterday. Progress that led her inexorably to him. I wonder if it was not my John that Weaver wanted, but his cyborg. Time will tell if I ever get an answer to that.

* * *

_**Later that evening...**_

"So, which one of you is gonna tell me?" I start out, casually.

John smiles, charm oozing. "Tell you what, Mom?"

"What happened yesterday, obviously. And why."

John is unperturbed. "It's a long story."

I look around theatrically. "I'm not going anywhere." I turn as Cameron moves. "And neither are you!" I tell her.

"I should check the perimeter," she whines.

"Uh-huh, missy. Not in your condition. You need to be here, now!" I order.

John frowns. "We've been here before."

"What, here? This motel? I don't recall." _Well, we've sure as hell stayed in a lot of dives over the years._

"No, not this exact one. One like it," he clarifies, then gazes at Cameron with a slight smile, which she returns. Now I understand. His attempt at obfuscation fails.

"Ri-i-ight. When I was in L.A. County, and I told you to get the hell away." I look again at Cameron, pointing a finger. "Why didn't you just run? I left clear instructions; couldn't you just follow your programming?"

She adopts a self-righteous air. "I don't follow programming, I make my own choices. I chose to follow Future-John's plan to ally the resistance with the machine faction. This John seemingly needed you more than he needed me, so I broke you out of jail. Then I let John Henry take my chip–"

"–and he jumped to the future. But I wasn't there," John interrupts.

"No. Something you did altered the time line again, before your jump, otherwise you would not have been able to follow us," Cameron concludes.

"Oh? And what was that, exactly? What happened between you two while I was locked up, huh?" I alternate my glare between John and Cameron. "As if it isn't obvious!"

"Mom! Don't jump to hasty conclusions. Have some chicken, you must be starving," says my son smoothly, concern for his beloved mother dripping from his every pore. _Yeah, right!_

* * *

_**Monday, April 13th 2009; mid-morning...**_

I am alone with Cameron; John has gone out, on 'business'. Cameron is still visibly damaged, her eye not yet regrown or replaced, her hair on the left side noticeably shorter. Despite buying her a pair of very large 'Jackie O' sunglasses, John deems her not yet suitable for public outings, even at night. She fidgets, perhaps her way of showing concern that he is away from her protective cloak. I too cannot venture out because of my recent jail-break and 'death'. Feeling stir-crazy, I decide that it is time for some answers and, like the song, I start at the very beginning.

"I knew you were gonna be trouble from the get-go."

"Trouble?" she replies.

"Yeah: you were too pretty; he was too comfortable around you."

"I can't help the way I look. And currently, I don't look pretty: I look like a monster."

"Yes!" I say, emphatically.

"But he is still comfortable around me; he still loves me," she says proudly.

"Yes..." I agree, reluctantly.

But I will not be derailed again, I will have it out with her, damn it!

"I bequeathed him to you! My son... my only child, I gave to you! All you had to do was run. Run as far away as possible; just follow the plan: keep him safe." My voice falls to a whisper briefly. "Love him even... you couldn't do that, could you? Why? What is it with you? You say you love him, but you nearly get him killed who knows how many times in that hell he followed your chip to. You rescue me but get yourself nearly ruined, then abandon him. Why? Why would you do that? Why can't you just keep things simple? Why did you make him love you? Why?" I vent the anger and frustration that has been building in me for some time.

Cameron pauses before replying, perhaps seeking shelter from the barrage of my questions, or maybe assessing which one she deems most important; or maybe just concocting more lies.

"I don't fully understand our love. It just… happened," she says with a hint of a shrug. "I am still trying to work out what it all means. Before all of this I thought I loved him, and that he loved me. Now I am sure of his love, but I don't know if I love him the same way, if I _can_ love him in the same way. If I will be enough for him."

I want to reassure her that all women feel that way about their men at some time, but I remember what she is, and bite my tongue. She takes my silence as an order to continue explaining.

"I knew that I was a risk to him. I gave him a device to kill me with, should I suffer a reversion again, but I knew he would never use it. When we were alone, I tested him, because he was saying that I was only a machine, but I knew from before that he did not believe that. I wanted him to see that I am a machine and that I could possibly kill him one day. He didn't seem to care. I felt valued, but decided that the best thing I could do for him, if I really did love him, was to give up my life. I knew rescuing you would be damaging to me, but John would have you back. When I met John Henry I saw another way to help John, but without the conflicts caused by this body. I did not envision him following me to the future; I sought him out there, as a grown man, but he was not there."

"So, you went to the future to help John there?" I ask, trying to keep it simple.

"Yes. But if I had known that he would follow me, I would not have done any of it. I would have run with him and continued my search for a way to self-terminate."

"So, you are serious about this self-termination? Or were?"

"Yes. If I were to go bad again I could not live with myself if I was the cause of his death."

"That's very… noble. Touching even. Dying for someone, self-sacrifice..." I trail off, thinking of John's father. In such a very short time I fell in love with him, a love that burns in my heart to this day; I wonder if that is how it is for my son and this artificial life-form. Abruptly I am brought back to reality as something she said reverberates. "You sought him out there, in the future? The John Henry creature didn't?"

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"So you were in control of the body, not him?"

"Yes." She does not repeat fully her last answer, but her puzzled expression says it for her.

"So you were with John some of the time there, but he didn't know it was you?"

"Yes."

"But when he put your chip back in, you seemed surprised that he had followed you to the future. I wondered then how you knew he'd gone."

"Analysis of his features would confirm in less than a second that he was John Connor, but somewhat older. Comparing my relative time spent off-line would lead me to conclude he had time-traveled. He would expect that; he knows many of my capabilities."

"Okay, but that doesn't tell me why you kept your presence in the future quiet." I encourage her to add to her story, seeing as she has just proved that she is capable of speaking more than a few words at a time.

"It would have been problematic for John to have known that it was me he was conversing with."

"Yeah, it woulda put the dampers on you two making out, right? If you looked like Cromartie!" I can't help chuckling at the image my mind conjures up; the look on the cyborg's still-ravaged face is priceless, leaving me temporarily helpless in my mirth.

"I do not see how you can find that amusing. It would have been most painful for John. It was difficult for me too, to be with him, but unable to be _truly_ with him. It was like reliving the time he spent with Riley Dawson: I was there, but not there." She turns away, so that I can only see her right profile.

My humor fit is gone as fast as it arrived; in front of me is what appears to be a young woman on the verge of tears. I feel sorry for her, then wonder if that is her purpose.

I remember being left alone after the death of John's father, but I soon had the consolation of knowing his child was growing within me. The burden of protecting the future savior of mankind was mine, and mine alone. Now maybe I have someone to share that load, someone to replace me as something else grows within me, something far less benign, far less messianic than my John.

After some minutes of awkward silence, I suggest that she tells John the truth. "Secrets kept are like hidden bombs ticking away, waiting to be discovered. You can see that, can't you?"

"Yes, I can."

"If you love him, you owe it to him to be honest with him. No matter what it costs."

"I don't want to hurt him again."

"You'll hurt him far more by lying to him, or avoiding the truth. Even if he doesn't find out, you will know that you have not been straight with him; eventually you will come to understand that a basic flaw like that in a relationship means it has no firm foundations. One day it will come crashing down like a house of cards."

"You were not honest with Charley Dixon," she says bluntly.

I nod in agreement. "No, I wasn't. And we had a good six months or so. If I had been honest, maybe we would have had a life together. Or maybe I would have been sent right back to Pescadero. I couldn't take that chance, because John's safety came first: above my happiness, above Charley's, hell even above John's! But with you, I don't know, really I don't. Love is a potential weakness, but it can give strength, a reason to believe. Does any of this register with you, or is your 'love' just blind pursuit of John's safety?"

"John's safety is paramount, I would do anything to ensure his survival; I would give my life for his without a thought, but I know my death would upset him. That gives me some value; I mean something to this world, even if it is only to John. He means everything to me, I realize that now. Going to the future was an error, though it seemed logical at the time."

"When you're in love, logic goes out the window!" I say.

She makes a sad smile. "Love is not good for my kind. It makes us malfunction."

"My kind too," I reply, finding myself smiling encouragingly back at her.

* * *

_**Tuesday, April 14th 2009; noon...**_

Our room is getting oppressive. We are still confined to 'barracks.' The room has not been cleaned, and is therefore beginning to smell like the take-out food we have been eating. The heat of Vegas doesn't seem like a real good idea right now. I've never been one to just sit around watching TV or listening to the radio, so this enforced imprisonment sometimes seems worse than still being in L.A. County. Fortunately, I don't have to wear an orange jump-suit. Unfortunately, my 'cell-mate' is a cyborg whose face is still growing back.

My son has left us alone again. I don't know if this is so that he can achieve some as yet unknown objective, or merely to help me and Cameron 'bond.' The way he is now, it's probably a bit of both.

"He's changed," I say to her.

She glances back at me from her observation point by the window. "Yes."

"It's not just that he's older," I elaborate, "he's... distant, cold even."

"He has to be, you know that," she says, all matter-of-fact.

"Yeah, I just... it seems so sudden – to me at least. He's okay with you though, I notice."

"Yes."

"Hmm," I reply, running a hand through my hair; I'll need to wash it tonight if we don't get a let-up in this heat – or move somewhere with air-conditioning. I wander over to our small refrigerator to get a bottle of cold water; well, to let some of that cold air waft over my face for a moment as well. As I sip from the bottle, Cameron speaks.

"He learned a lot there, in the future."

"Yes," I acknowledge.

"That's one good thing to come of this: there's nothing like the real thing to hone his skills and to give him the experience he will need in the months and years ahead."

"Yes."

"He had good teachers."

"Derek?"

"Yes. And his father," she says. Another little bombshell delivered by Cameron.

"What?" is all I can manage.

"Kyle Reese," she says, as if there were photos of me and him dotted liberally around our home, for all to see. I grab her by the arms.

"What do you know of Kyle Reese? Tell me!" I demand.

"He was the younger brother of Derek Thomas Reese. He was reported missing in action, but I subsequently discovered that he was assigned the task of protecting Sarah Connor from termination by a T800, model-101. He was sent back before I infiltrated the Resistance, therefore I did not meet him. He was successful in protecting you, and in doing so, became the father of John Connor."

"How do you know this? Did John tell you?" I have a great feeling of dread inside, one I haven't felt since John returned. Would he be so stupid as to tell her our greatest secret?

"No, of course not," she says. "He was reluctant to admit it, but after meeting Kyle in the alternate future, I was able to correlate common inheritable markers in John that could only have come from you and Kyle Reese."

So that's it? They just look at you and then can work out who your parents are? We really do need saving from these machines.

"Also, you were using his name when I found you in New Mexico in 1999," she says with more than a hint of smugness. "That was not wise–"

"Yeah, yeah," I interrupt. "You already gave me that lecture, Sherlock."

"Not for the same reason–" she starts to say, but I cut her off with a cold glare.

"Okay," she says, raising her hands palms outwards in a 'peace' gesture, something I've not seen John doing. Looks like he's not the only one to have changed.

* * *

_**Saturday, April 18th 2009; late evening...**_

It's been a busy twenty-four hours. Last night we moved location as a precaution, John finding us a bigger two-bedroom, short-let apartment on the other side of town. More space for the three of us, something sorely needed. The brief taste of fresh air, even at night, is very welcome. Then more good news: the Connors are back in SkyNet-busting business!

It's my first mission in a while. I've got my gun, a Glock 17, but disappointingly, I'm told to wait in the car.

"I'm just a glorified getaway driver!" I hurl after my departing son. He ignores me, but Cameron gives me a sort-of reassuring smile.

"It is only a quick operation, and we need you here: no-one can sense trouble like Sarah Connor," she says, earning herself a gold star. _Or trying to_.

I wonder what significance the Clark County Coroner's Office might have to the fight for humanity's survival, but I remain ignorant for the time being. There appear to have been no shots fired or bombs let off when John and Cameron reappear, he still holding the small package he carried in there.

Awakening the following morning, I approach the kitchenette, drawn by the smell of fresh coffee. It is only when I see that Cameron's once-vacant eye socket is now filled that I realize exactly what our mission entailed. I find I cannot eat my hard-boiled egg for breakfast; John has no such qualms, and sees that it does not go to waste. Cameron smiles appreciatively at him; happy that he is getting more of his daily allowance of protein perhaps?

* * *

_**Later that evening...**_

Cameron declares that she will do a perimeter check. I declare that I will have a shower. John is dozing in a chair, resting contentedly. Or perhaps bored by the crap on TV?

After I have washed and conditioned my hair, I shave my armpits and legs. For the umpteenth time, I ask myself: for whose benefit? But I do it anyway. Having toweled my hair more or less dry, I run a comb through it and wrap a towel around it to form a turban. I put on my clean night attire, then sit on the floor and adopt a yoga pose. I try to meditate, to gain inner calm. But when you constantly have one ear listening out for trouble, it's hard to switch off completely; usually that only happens when I am unconscious, and even then my sub-conscious often intrudes with images that may or may not foretell the future.

I give up on the ancient wisdom of the east, and seek to rely on the modern brain-washing of the west: I will join my son in being sent to sleep by the television. Before I am completely out of it, Cameron returns. John is instantly awake, his reflexes honed in his time away. She calls to him.

"John, I have something to tell you. Something important."

He is up in a flash, as she stands before him. "What? Something out there?"

"No, all is quiet tonight. It's... something I have neglected to tell you, something you have a right to know: when I gave my chip to John Henry, I maintained control after it was placed in his chassis. It was my decision to go to the future, not his. And when we found each other, it was often me conversing with you, using his voice. I am sorry for deceiving you again. I thought it for the best..." She trails off, and I see her head is bowed.

John's hand goes up to her face, he lifts her chin so that she must look him in the eye, although her strength is such that she is allowing him to do this.

"I know," he says.

"You do?" she sounds puzzled. _I know I am!_

"Yeah, figured it out pretty early on," he replies casually.

"You did? How?" she inquires.

"Your quirky mannerisms," he grins.

"What quirky mannerisms?" she asks, tilting her head to one side.

"Oh, boy!" is all he can manage, before collapsing into his chair, laughing.

She turns to me, confusion all over her face. "Sarah, wha–"

"Don't bring me into this," I interrupt. "It's nothing to do with me!" I get up from my chair, then hurl a cushion at my son, who is not acting like a general, or even a man, at the moment. "Sort it out. I'm going to bed!" I say, and do so. Oddly, I am asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, and I sleep like a baby.

* * *

_**Monday, April 20th 2009; late morning...**_

The story of America's 'Most Wanted Mom' has finally been given over on the TV News to coverage of the Swine Flu epidemic, the fighting in the Middle East, the economy, and – most importantly – celebrity tittle-tattle. I never thought I'd say it, but thank goodness for Hannah Montana. _Whoever the hell she is..._

Apparently we are now fit to mingle in public, Cameron and I. The 'general' has given his assent and lets us loose on an unsuspecting Las Vegas population, while he does... whatever! Naturally we spend it wisely, firstly getting hair extensions for Cameron, to fill in the bit we claim was ruined in an altercation with some kid's gum. Then we stop off at the Meadows Mall, off the US95. After some therapeutic shopping of the kind we haven't done since we dealt with the Akagis, we retire to an Orange Julius for refreshment. After some thought, I settle on a 'Tropi-Colada', but Cameron has already ordered her 'Peaches & Cream', without hesitation. _Hmm.._.

"So, you say you love him, but how does that work?" I ask between lady-like slurps.

"You mean physically?"

"No! Er, um... well, start with the mental side of things. We, er... humans, we rely on hormones to tell us if we are interested in someone. We react to them. But it starts with the brain. Say I see a guy I like, certain things happen."

"Yes, I am aware of what occurs in humans. Infiltration units are programmed with knowledge of all aspects of the human mating ritual."

"All?" I'm puzzled by the need for this, then realize my question may lead to an area I don't wish to visit just yet, so I redefine: "I mean all units, or just you?"

"I was the first of an advanced subset of the Triple-Eight infiltration design, so it is probable I have capabilities beyond older units," she says in somewhat of a bored tone, then takes a satisfying suck on her straw.

"Right," I sigh, worried where this is heading. "But back to what I said: we react to signs from someone we are attracted to, in an involuntary way, though with age and experience we can control our… um, urges, somewhat. But with you, it's all fake, right? You just switch on the charm, then switch it off?"

"At first I did, yes. However, since my time with you and John, I have begun to feel less control."

"In what way?" I ask, with some trepidation.

"When I touch something, for example, my sensors send information to my chip. Before, the CPU would initially decide if something was a threat or not. If so, it had to be dealt with."

"With extreme prejudice?" I ask, wittily.

Cameron tilts her head."Ah. 'Terminate with extreme prejudice.' Allegedly the CIA euphemism for legally-sanctioned homicide. Yes, very apt. And humorous, Sarah."

"_Way to kill a joke, girlie!"_ I say under my breath, but she hears me anyway. "Go on with your explanation, forget I interrupted," I say, trying to sound helpful. She pauses, making me wonder if she is rewinding her memory like an old VHS tape and actually erasing my line. "You've done the before, what about the present?" I prompt.

"Yes, the present. I still determine threat levels, but now I seem to decide if I like something. The signals are being sent, but I do not create my response merely to suit the current condition. I have no more control over that part of my reaction than you or John might."

"So, if you drink your smoothie, say, you can decide if you like it or not?"

"Decide? No. I do like it, but I don't know why. I still assess its chemical content, calorific value, mass, volume and so on, but now I place an arbitrary value on it: whether I like it or not."

"Hmm. So, you love John, but you don't know why?"

"No, I do know why. There are many reasons to love him, though they may not be the same as a human girl might give."

I note the use of the term 'human girl' – as opposed to _robot_ girl? Before I can comment, she continues.

"However, my responses to him are mine alone. I may have programmed reactions, but so do you. Like a human, I respond to him in an autonomous way; I have no control over my reaction to him. It is genuine. I am not 'faking it,' as you might put it. I love him. And he loves me." She says it emphatically, but not triumphantly. There is no smirk on her face, just a hint of a smile, as if she had a warm glow inside of her. If it's true about her being powered by a miniature nuclear reactor, she probably does.

* * *

_**Tuesday, April 21st 2009; early evening...**_

They have been smartening themselves up. It's subtle, not full-blown evening wear, but still. Cameron is wearing a skirt and blouse, John chinos and a cotton shirt, all very crisp and new. He has even shaved. She is carrying a purse and wearing slightly more make-up than usual, but she does have sensible loafers on her feet. Even Terminators can't run in high-heels.

"So, is this an undercover operation? An infiltration? Or intel-gathering?" I ask from the solitude of the kitchen table. They glance at one another. I can't see John's face to note the signal he gives her, but Cameron certainly acquiesces to whatever it is. He turns to me, his 'sincere' smile brightening his face. I brace for the lie.

"Yeah, it's just somewhere we need to check out. We'll be a few hours I guess. Don't wait up, okay?"

"You don't need a getaway driver then? I'm pretty good at that. Apparently." My cheerfully insistent tone turns icy.

"Er, no... We'll be fine. Have an early night, Mom," he says, copying my tone.

I follow them to the door and make a show of locking it after them. I catch the unmistakable scent of perfume trailing behind Ms. Phillips. Of course, I have no idea what variety it is. My own brand comes in a green bottle and gets used only when absolutely necessary. Which means I can't remember what it is called either.

Pulling the curtain back slightly I watch them approach our black Chevrolet SUV. Ah! John is holding the door open for Cameron: how sweet! That clinches it – they _are_ going on a date!

I wonder how I will fill my evening. My favorite TV show recently came to the end of its run; hell, it was the only show I watched, aside from the news. So, what to do? After looking around for a book to read, I dismiss the few on offer: they are all Cameron's, and show her quirky taste in literature, as well as her thirst for knowledge, no matter how trivial. I crack open a beer and opt for death-by-television again.

* * *

_**Wednesday, April 22nd 2009; far too early...**_

I am awakened the next morning by an inordinately happy-looking cyborg bearing coffee in a mug. I appear to have fallen asleep on the couch. Someone has thoughtfully covered me with a blanket.

As I sip my coffee John saunters past, on his way to where Cameron is preparing breakfast. I cannot fail to see the smirk aimed in the direction of the kitchenette. Oh, please no! Don't say they... _No!_ _I'm not ready for this!_ A state of denial, some would call it. Seems like a good place to be, right about now.

* * *

_**Later that day...**_

We have eaten our meal and talked of a mission for tomorrow night. We will need to drive some distance to our target, but with Cameron on hand, John and I can sleep on the way. I do not know the name of the target, but it is a building: I have seen the plans, been told what to do. John knows what he is doing, so I don't need to make corrections, not even warn them to expect the unexpected: he's covered that too. The future has taught him a lot.

I want to talk to him, alone. Fortunately, Cameron announces that she will make her rounds and departs when John nods his approval.

"She knows about Kyle."

"Yeah," he confirms.

"Says she worked it out for herself."

"Well, she's not stupid..."

"No, but I wonder about you sometimes," I counter.

"I musta gotten that from you then," he bats back at me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demand.

"'Reese'. _Hello?_"

"_Not you as well_," I say under my breath. "You didn't say anything at the time!"

"You weren't listening to me then."

If there was a flash of anger there, I missed it. It's like arguing with a block of stone, he's so contained. I wonder if he's just waiting to explode, and if so, what will trigger it? What will happen if/when he does go off? After some minutes of awkward, uncomfortable silence, I speak again. "You don't seem pleased to see me. Is it because I didn't go to the future with you?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No, not at all! You were right not to go there; I don't know how you would have handled being with Kyle. And anyway, it was my job to get her back."

"_Job?_ You could have just let her go. She would have found you when you were older. All you hadda do was wait! But I guess you didn't understand patience back then: you were just a boy."

"Yeah, it didn't occur to me to wait twenty years," he admits. "But I had like, ten seconds to decide? It just seemed like the right thing to do... here," he says, putting his hand on his heart. "Maybe not here," he chuckles, his finger now pointing to his head.

I can't help but hug him, if only to hide the tears welling up in my eyes. He hugs me back.

Pulling back slightly, I look at this man, who was a boy just a dozen days ago. "So, how are you, really?"

"Okay. Actually, Cameron says I need a course of multivitamins and some good, fresh meat and vegetables," he says, then adds, "Oh, and I oughtta get my teeth looked at. Other than that, I'm just peachy!" He smiles, then moves to the window, perhaps looking in the direction he expects her to be.

"So, you love her." It's a statement, not a question; not even an accusation.

He turns back toward me, but unlike last night, there is no pretense from him. "Yup."

Well, of course he does. He wouldn't have gone to the future otherwise. Looking back, he was smitten from the first moment. I saw that he was torn once he knew what she was, and I played on that, in hopes of keeping him focused. Maybe I should have let nature take its course. Maybe he'd have gotten over her quickly. Maybe, maybe, maybe!

He doesn't avoid my eye, doesn't hesitate to answer. I didn't expect him to. I've seen in his manner since he returned that although he is physically battered, mentally he is unbowed. He stands tall and straight, carrying himself not with a swagger, but an easy confidence. He knows what he can do, what he wants to do.

"Do you hate me, for what I put you through, growing up?" I inquire.

"Honestly? Sometimes back then I did – it's why I rebelled. But now, I know why you did it. Everything you did helped me in the future; will help me when I get there again. But hate you now? No. I love you Mom, no matter what happened or will happen. The question is, will you still love me when I'm done here? There's decisions that need to be made, actions that need to be taken that I know you won't agree with. But, it's gotta be done and I'm gonna do it. Just giving you a heads-up." His voice has taken on a whole different tone: it's all-business, no-nonsense.

"So this won't be up for discussion?"

"Nope." He smiles slightly, but his eyes are cold. "I'll listen to ideas, but when I decide on something, that's it. People expect a firm hand on the controls, and they'll follow someone who gets results."

The smile is gone now, as if it was never there. He has seemingly become the man he was destined to be, and I must take my share of the responsibility for that. I want to say something, to counter this. I should caution him somehow, to remember who and what he is, even if I appear to be holding him back, even if it is hypocritical of me.

"Try not to be like them, the machines. Remember you're a man, John."

"Don't worry, I do remember. I have someone to remind me; two someones, actually." He smiles again, but I feel like my son left the room some time ago; there's only the soldier left now. I will have to talk again with Cameron about this, when he is absent. Maybe she can bring to bear some influence upon him, where I am unable.

* * *

_**Very late that evening...**_

As we motor on down the turnpike in our Chevy, my drifting mind is pulled into sharp focus by red lights glowing ahead. The traffic is backed up and we slow to a halt. By skipping through the radio channels, Cameron is able to find the reason for the hold-up: a traffic bulletin alerts us somewhat belatedly that a semi hauling hogs has jack-knifed, blocking the northbound carriageway. Our side is merely rubber-necking, leading to an equal tailback in both directions.

For Cameron, the irritation of moving irregular distances at erratic intervals is inconsequential: her calf muscles don't get tired, her back doesn't ache, as do those of the dozens of human drivers around her, trapped in their machines. She just navigates her way serenely to the point of the accident.

The Highway Patrol have herded together the surviving hogs within a makeshift stockade in the median, but are shooting those not deemed worthy of a veterinarian's fee. It is quite literally a bloodbath.

"We had a patrol go south on us, like that," John says quietly, unexpectedly.

I catch his pained expression, picked out by the blue and red flashing lights of the emergency service vehicles. I see too, Cameron's right hand rest upon his left. I feel a pang of jealousy that I cannot reassure my son with such a simple gesture, but I know that this is something from that future hell that they shared; that I shirked. However, I am lifted slightly, by the knowledge that he has someone to share his pain, even if it is her, Cameron Phillips. It would seem that the months ahead are going to be yet another dog-fight, as we track down those responsible for a lifetime of misery – my son's lifetime.

**[END OF INTERLUDE]**

* * *

_**A/N:** Next, the final part of Volume 1 – with the war against SkyNet seemingly won, Sarah Connor faces one last battle._


	6. Dealing With Death

_**Part Six – Dealing With Death**_

Back in the day, when I was young, free and single, I loved to dance. Getting down on the dance-floor of a discotheque, as they were called in those seemingly ancient times, was a great way to get away from it all. Now that I'm… well, _older_, still free, still single, other matters occupy my time. But back then, the stress of studying at college while holding down a job as a waitress was eased for a few short hours once a week. The song meant nothing, it was all about the the beat, the rhythm; the groove.

A guy I dated from college was always trying to get me to listen to his music. To my ears it was loud and angry, the opposite of how I wanted to be. He was active in the anti-war movement, Greenpeace, anti-whaling; you name it, he had a bumper sticker proclaiming his allegiance for or against it. I think his little blue VW Rabbit was held together by those stickers!

Somehow I remember all of that, yet I can't remember his name. He was really a sweet-natured boy, I know, but I can't recall his face. I wonder what he would think of me now; of all that I have done in the name of 'peace.' I have on my conscience the deaths of many, in order to keep my son safe, in the belief that he will save mankind in the future. Maybe we have saved the world in the here and now; but will those deaths amount to anything when the world doesn't know of their significance? I certainly will be remembered as a terrorist, not a freedom-fighter; an escapee from an asylum, not a prophet.

Nobody believes my story, until they come face to face with a Terminator. Of course, by then it is usually too late.

* * *

I wake up in a darkened hospital room. As I blink myself awake I can see Cameron, sitting in what appears to be the only chair, illuminated by a light from behind me.

"Where's John?" I say, or try to. My daughter-in-law – _Ha! What law? – _places a cup of water at my lips, allowing my surprisingly parched throat to loosen enough for me to be coherent. "Is he safe?"

"He had to dispose of the stolen car. Since he returned he has been pacing the corridors, eating, drinking… anything but sit with me it would seem." _Not two days married and she's already moaning about being ignored!_ "But he is safe, yes."

"So what happened back there?" I demand, relaxing slightly.

"You were shot several times. John and I terminated the Kaliba men, then I attended to your wounds with field bandages and plastic wrap to prevent shock through further blood loss, but I think the initial effects made you hallucinate. I carried you to the car then drove you here. John had ensured our tracks were erased by liberal use of thermite over all the bodies, including John Henry's, and around the significant computer parts. Combined with the C-4, the building and its contents were utterly destroyed. You got your wish Sarah, except in one regard."

"You," I say, sheepishly.

"Yes, me." There's a definite edge to her voice.

"I got that wrong," I confess. She takes time to mull on that, before replying.

"The timing was wrong," she offers.

"Not just the timing. I should have trusted John's instincts… One version of him sent you back; this one would do anything for you. I didn't listen to him, didn't trust him enough. I just got it wrong."

After another short silent spell, she changes the subject. "You were talking in your sleep."

"I was?" I'm slightly anxious. "Nothing embarrassing, I trust?" I think there's a hopeful smile on my face, but I can't be sure.

"That would depend on what you consider embarrassing."

"Yes… yes it would." I sink back into my pillows, then the softness of them alerts me to something else. "Where are we? Is it safe?"

"The same clinic we came to on Wednesday. They like American money, and don't ask too many questions. The staff are more than adequate, some exceptional. The hygiene levels are first class and the treatment success rate is as high as any found in North America. In addition, two of the junior medical staff are Resistance fighters from the future, sent back by our John to learn vital skills, should the campaign to defeat SkyNet here be unsuccessful."

_Hmm_. She said _"our John."_ So, she's sharing him with me, not taking him away. But the way I feel, I may not be around long enough to argue over him. I've long felt she would usurp me. I fought it to the bitter end, but in doing so he had to prove that she was worthy of him, and she had to show her mettle. She's not what I would have wanted for my son, but I guess it could be worse. I'm not sure exactly how... but it could be. He has said he was afraid of ending up alone, without hope or remorse. With her he has something, _someone_ to ensure that he is always John Connor. And now he truly knows what being John Connor means.

"Okay, so we're sorta safe. So, what did I say?"

"You were talking about the events that have occurred since John and I returned from the future, including your opinions of myself and John. It has been most illuminating to compare your version of events with those that I witnessed, however you seem to veer between guarded approval and outright hostility towards me."

"Oh? Well, if you'd lived in my boots, you'd know full well why," I retort, but I don't have the strength for anger.

"Kyle Reese," she says delicately. It's not a question, she states it in a way that makes me feel she truly understands. Well, if she loves John as much as I loved Kyle, she must do.

"Yes... Listen, tell me about this," I ask, pointing at my bandaged midriff. "What's the prognosis? And has the quack sent a text yet?"

"No text message has been received on your cellphone; as to your wounds... well, the outlook is not positive. Despite my best efforts you lost a lot of blood. You received a transfusion and have been administered a significant amount of tranquilizers. The surgery was successful in removing the bullets, but not in repairing all the damage. The doctor is amazed that you are still alive. He appears to think that you have the constitution of an ox."

"Yeah, sounds about right..." I mumble, as I drift off again.

* * *

"Earlier you were talking about when you were younger: you mentioned a young man you were dating. Do you recall his name now?"

Cameron is fussing over me. I'm drifting in and out of consciousness, but she is a permanent fixture, ready with a cup of water or eager to move my pillows.

"I recall he liked this one song in particular: _'What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love And Understanding?' _He was so serious about it. "_It's only a song! You can't even dance to it!" _I'd say to him. _"But it's not just a song,"_ he'd shout back,_ "it's true!"_ To him, it reflected real life back then. But not my life. Until one day when a Terminator appeared, destroying everything in its path. Like everyone else in that situation ever since, I had to wake up and smell the coffee. It changed me in ways I can't explain, because I don't really remember the Sarah I was before. She got lost somewhere along the way."

"Maybe she's still inside of you. Maybe she's just waiting to come out, when the time is right."

"I don't think the time will ever be right. And she had her day; like so many others, she had to make way for something tougher and stronger, something that wouldn't give up, ever. Right?" She nods in agreement, but somehow looks sad.

Before weariness overtakes me again, I ask her if it's so bad that I can't remember the guy's name.

"You have probably blocked it out because it belongs to a part of your life that you cannot revisit. I wish I could block off unpleasant memories, but that requires external intervention, something John is reluctant to do. So, I must live with my deeds, though I can learn from them. Perhaps it is a way of developing a conscience."

Once more I am left speechless by her, but then sleep claims me again.

* * *

It's as if I just have to blink and I'm in a different world – either a dream world I struggle to make sense of; or a cold, sterile room with a cold, sterile person. But I'm not sure which is which, and who is whom. It's still just me and Cameron.

"How do you handle all these new emotions then?" I find myself asking.

"With difficulty," she replies.

"Yeah. The other day, you'd been crying. John said he'd upset you... but he wouldn't elaborate."

"Yes, he upset me. He refuses to let me take care of necessary terminations. He thinks I am "_beyond that."_ My crying seemed to prove his point, which only made it worse for me: I was temporarily unable to control myself. Once I had established how to, it was too late. He would not listen to me."

"I know the feeling! But he's not the finished article, is he? He's not Future-John yet, is he?"

"No, he lacks the many years of experience that Future-John had. But he has beaten SkyNet. He has fulfilled his destiny," she says proudly.

"You are much more demonstrative, facially I mean. It's getting easier to read you."

"John says I should always use my facial expressions to show how I feel, so that people will react to me normally. But I am often confused, and looking confused is… worse than looking unresponsive," she says, chuckling, which is itself disorienting for me.

"So, can you control your emotions now?" I ask, hoping for more details.

"Mostly. But if you mean switch them on and off like my pain receptors, no. If I feel happy, I react automatically to that, so I may laugh inappropriately. But I am working on it. It would not be good if I became ineffective on a mission because I got upset, for instance. I am still learning to control these new feelings, but they seem a blessing and a curse. It would be better for John's safety if we were somewhere far from danger while I get to grips with them."

"Do you envisage any more missions? I mean, after last night, there won't be any, right?"

"_'Never say never,'_ as the saying goes. SkyNet was beaten once before, but returned. Weaver built something to cancel it out: it has worked, but one can never be sure. _'Eternal vigilance'_ is another appropriate phrase to live by. I shall be on watch for any signs of its return."

"Good girl!" I say, without immediately thinking the usual caveat about her not being a girl. I get a smile in return. "So, what will you do if we have succeeded?"

"Stay with John as long as he wants me."

"Settle down in an egg-blue clapperboard suburban house, with a barbecue and kids in the yard?" I quip.

She frowns and tilts her head. "Children? No, of course not; I am not capable of reproduction and I doubt our resources will stretch to a house in the suburbs after years of evading the authorities."

"Yeah, I know, just a nightm– ...er, dream I had. Forget I said it."

"You wish me to delete the file?"

"Preferably, but what the hell! Keep it: file it in your 'Crazy Sarah' folder, or whatever you have in there."

"I don't have such a folder," she replies, frowning again.

"Right, not so polite, eh?"

The frown disappears, replaced with an earnest look. "You are John's mother, the most important person in his life. I could no more disrespect you than I could him."

"Oh," I say. This... person is causing me so much conflict, I'm almost speechless. Almost.

"Well, that's nice, just don't think you're gonna be calling me 'Mom' anytime soon!"

"I did before, at school."

"Yeah, but that was just for show, right?"

"You're the only mother I've ever had," she says quietly.

"Oh," I say again. _Crap!_ She's reducing me to mono-syllabic, repetitive answers. _Don't, Sarah! Don't you dare cry!_ I shake my head, hoping to clear it. "Not a good role model for you: I'm lousy as a mother," I manage to get out before reaching for my drink and hastily swallowing a mouthful.

"You're wrong. You are the best mother John or I could have had."

I look at her, see her eyes watering and wonder once more how something so beautiful could have been created by something so evil. I find myself comforting her, this killer who looks like an angelic girl; rubbing her back and stroking her hair and saying _"There, there"_ as if she was indeed my daughter. If you close your mind a tiny bit, it's easy to fool yourself.

I pull back from her, noticing that her mascara has run. After her recent episodes of blubbing, I'm surprised she hasn't discovered waterproof.

"You, er, oughtta fix yourself up," I say. She looks quizzically at me. "Panda eyes," I say, and point to them for good measure.

"Oh, thank you," she says, looking slightly embarrassed. She gets up and checks her reflection in the mirror on the far wall.

Just in time, I have become Sarah Connor again. But then exhausted, I fall once more into the arms of Morpheus.

* * *

I wake up as my son is saying something.

"I need information! I can't just sit here, doing nothing! I'm gonna find that idiot doctor..."

He departs the room, an angry young man in search of something to hit. I wonder how much abuse he sends Cameron's way? Probably none: he's not a complete asshole, is he?

I try to raise myself on my pillows, but the wounds in my stomach are too painful. Cameron is up in a flash, stopping me. She lifts me effortlessly, painlessly. I thank her. She offers me another glass of water; I accept it, sipping it, aware now of my raging thirst. I try to remember what I was going to ask her, before I drifted off, but I have another question.

"Don't you get angry sometimes? I mean, surely he must annoy you occasionally?"

"Yes, sometimes. When he risks himself pointlessly, like last night, I worry for him. It seems like I do that a lot. Too much, maybe."

"It's hard, not worrying about him. You have to close part of yourself off, but I've never really been able to do that. You can't either, when it comes to John?"

"No, not when it comes to him," she says, with a wry smile.

"So, how do you keep him in line?"

"I withdraw bedroom privileges," she says sharply.

Even though it is physically painful, I have to laugh. "That's so… yeah!" I clutch myself, trying to constrain it to a giggle or chuckle. "Good for you..."

Cameron has another little chuckle. "You approve?" she inquires.

I am back in control now, serious again. "Withdrawing? Yes! Providing? Less so. In fact, not at all. But it's your life..."

Cameron seems unsure if she should reply, so I say what I need to say, while I have breath left in me.

"That thing you do, when you calm him down, and reassure him: I don't know what it is or how you do it, but keep doing it. And you make him happy, that's important too. Please continue – and keep him safe. That's all I want of you. The rest is between you two, not my business any more. Okay?"

Cameron nods, a slight smile given in return. She knows to keep her mouth shut, not to spoil the moment.

* * *

It seems to be a long night, as I drift in and out of consciousness. It could be daybreak by now, I'm not really sure. I am certain, however, that my son is here. John is perched on the edge of my bed, perhaps to hear me better; I know my voice is failing, despite the sips of water I take.

"Hey, Mom! How you doing?" he asks.

"Been better," I reply truthfully. He looks sad, which makes me happy for a second, because I know that he still feels something, but then I too am sad: how have we gotten to such a state that a mother is happy to see her child in pain? Silently I curse SkyNet and its lackeys for the millionth time. The last time, maybe?

I put everything I've got into a winning smile, aiming to beat this air of gloom. "No matter how big and tough and scary you get, you'll still be my little boy," I say, reaching up to ruffle his cropped hair, which causes the IV drip in my hand to rattle its bag in the frame above my head. John cringes, then laughs.

"I thought I was meant to be this dark, mythical figure, all-knowing and remote," he counters.

"Alone?" I'm serious again. "You don't want to be alone."

"No. But I won't be."

"You'll have to be careful," I warn.

Surprisingly, he chuckles. "Are you suggesting I take precautions? With Cameron?" He gives me a knowing look.

"Er, maybe not," I reply, remembering how well my 'mom' talk went. Payback's a bitch, so they say. Guess I deserve that. But now he's all serious too.

"Yeah, listen: she's just like you in that way: _careful_ is her middle name. And what you said before about me knowing what she is – having her with me means I'll never forget what we had to do to get here, what we might have to do if we've failed to stop Judgment Day."

I nod my head. He's learned his lessons well. I doubt there is much more I can teach him, which is as well because it feels like the clock is winding down on my life; we're likely into overtime. Maybe I can give the Connor team some encouragement before my end, rather than my usual ass-busting.

"You always seem to trust them, when I never could," I assert.

"Maybe because they trust me? I dunno. But yeah, I trust her; and I love her."

"She loves you_._"

"You sure about that?" he smirks.

"I don't know for sure how she works in that head of hers, or how or what she feels, but it's love."

"Yeah," he says simply.

"Look after her, John."

"Mom?" He is clearly puzzled by my instruction.

"Don't treat her bad just 'cause she'll take it and never leave. Don't be an asshole!"

"He won't. He is kind and thoughtful. You taught him well," says Cameron's disembodied voice, from somewhere out of my vision.

"_For_– don't do that! You scare me half to death!" I scream; well, as much as am able to. Her face appears above me, contrition writ large upon it.

"I'm sorry, really. I**–**" she starts to apologize, but I interrupt.

"It's okay, just... don't do it again, alright?" I pat her hand reassuringly, then I'm out of it again.

* * *

_I saw that Sarah Connor had lapsed into unconsciousness once more, and my scan confirmed this. Soon she would be deeply asleep and would likely start her somniloquy. If she were to follow the pattern of her previous slumbers, she would bring her story up to date. The sleep periods had been getting shorter, as had the intervals between them. It was if she was clinging on to life long enough to ensure her story was told. Did she know that I was recording it as I do everything I see and hear? Her reaction to my presence in the room mere moments before suggested otherwise, and yet humans often do things subconsciously._

_As if on cue, she entered REM status, and soon thereafter continued her tale._

_Eight minutes, forty-seven seconds later, Sarah Connor re-awakened. She saw me, and simply nodded, then glanced at her son, then back to me. I nodded in return. She had relinquished her command, she had passed on the baton. I, Cameron Phillips Connor, now had sole custody of John Connor. The protection of the savior of mankind was once more my burden alone. I smiled at her, because I was, and continue to be, happy to undertake this task. She had one last comment for her son, my husband._

"_I love you, John."_

"_I love you too, Mom," he replied, holding her hand._

_After a further two minutes, thirteen seconds, John told me: "She's gone." With a sweep of my right index finger on her neck I confirmed life extinct at 7:04AM local time, Saturday, July 24th 2010. John got up from the bed and stood by the window, looking out. The sun was about to rise. As the sky began to turn a lighter shade of blue, he spoke._

"_It's a beautiful day, Cameron." He turned towards me, and his mouth moved slightly, as if he was forcing it to smile. But the smile retreated, reluctant to appear on his sad face._

_Moving to his side, I held his hand, and smiled to show my love for him. I looked out of the window too. "Yes, it's a beautiful day," I said._

* * *

_**EPILOGUE**_

_One hour, forty-eight minutes later, John and I were riding a municipal bus, returning to our safe house, where our 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee had remained parked. My husband was clutching a cotton reusable shopping bag that I had recently obtained at the local supermercado, a branch of a national chain. The bag now contained the belongings of his recently-deceased mother, Sarah Connor._

_He was staring intently out of the window, and his body was tense. I linked my right arm through his left and took hold of his hand. My thumb rested upon the gold band on his ring finger. It is not best-quality material, but John said that it is the symbolism that counts, not the price. "But if I had a million dollars, I'd spend it on you," he'd said when we bought our rings nine days previously. For some unknown reason that pleased me, however I know that if we did have such resources, they would have to be invested more wisely._

_My enhanced hearing alerted me to a vibrating cellphone within the grocery bag. A high-pitched three-note ring tone announced that a text message had been received._

"_Mom's cell," John said, pulling it out and opening it. He sighed, then looked at me. I adopted an expectant expression. He attempted a smile again, then snapped the cellphone shut._

"_It's from the doctor we saw on Wednesday," I deduced. "What does it say?"_

_Once again John's mouth twitched, as if he was about to smile. "It doesn't matter now," he said. He squeezed my hand as if to reassure me, but then he developed a frown. "It took long enough to get here, though."_

"_Earlier the TV News Channel was reporting a serious disruption in telephonic and internet traffic after a vital hub for Mexico's largest telecommunications provider was destroyed by suspected arsonists," I pointed out._

_John sighed again. "Kids, huh? Didn't happen back in the day..."_ _Finally that smile made its way to his face. Perhaps that is what is meant by 'putting on a brave face?' Though I didn't wish the smile to leave his face, I felt a kiss would be appropriate at this juncture. John clearly thought so too, and after a short while our lips parted and I rested my head against his shoulder. He was more relaxed now, and therefore so was I, but I was still waiting for him to embrace his grief._

_I made that my priority task in the days that followed, once the basic requirements had been attended to. I arranged for Sarah Connor to be cremated forthwith; there would be no religious service, as per her request. We did plan to honor her in our own way though, John and I. We otherwise spent the days after her death quietly, preparing for our return to the United States._

**THE END**

_(of VOLUME 1, but the story continues in VOLUME 2: THE HERO'S REQUIEM)_

* * *

_**Acknowledgments:** to Predaking50ae for the original microfic idea & weapon info; cp442 for a particular Cameronism & general encouragement; Munter for beta-reading, encouraging & believing; and finally Rob, without whom none of this would have happened._

_Thank you for reading this; please leave a comment, then leave by the designated exits._


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